


Waking the Witch

by tselina



Series: Upon this rocky shore [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Other Marvel Characters - Freeform, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Substance Use, Please Read All Warnings, Slow Burn Romance, WARNINGS ARE IN NOTES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tselina/pseuds/tselina
Summary: What would my powers be for, if not for things like this?AUTHOR IS MOVING. UPDATE QUEUE: 2A canon-divergent X-Men AU, based primarily on the X-Men: First Class timeline movies but with additions from the comics canon, “Waking the Witch” is a fan novel with a focus on Charles and Raven's friendship and the development of trust and romance between Charles and Erik.





	1. Part One - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to "Waking the Witch", one of two fan novels set a canon-divergent X-Men AU, and a re-telling of X-Men: First Class. It focuses on the initial trio's interaction, which will eventually include a romantic relationship between Charles and Erik. "Cloudbursting" will be the second half of the story, starting the trio's involvement with the CIA and through the end of the movie.
> 
> **BLANKET CONTENT WARNING This fic discusses, _though does not condone or promote_ , period-typical substance use (smoking, drinking, etc) and sexual practices (implied severe age gap/underage sexual encounters between men), child abuse (including brain-washing, neglect, severe homophobia, and sexual abuse) and step-sibling abuse (including sexual abuse). I will warn individually on chapters when necessary, but it's good to keep this in mind if there's just a throw-away mention in the text rather than a discussion.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Content Warning: Body Horror & Mentions of Torture.**

 

> _"We should make the night_  
>  _but see your little light's alive."_

-xxx-

_June 29, 1951 - Belgium_

The evening starts with very little promise of adventure. Charles Xavier, recently free of graduate school concerns with his doctorate studies on the near horizon, is glad for it. He's enjoyed a busy day in Brussels, one where his step-father's cavalcade of cohorts had convinced him to present his graduate thesis to a select group of geneticists. He'd accepted readily – Charles _does_ like to hear himself talk – but it had required so much more _standing_ in his very uncomfortable shoes.

Shoes that he removes at the earliest convenience, despite how fashionable his sister claims they are. He doesn't have spares on him, and they've already checked out of their rooms at the Metropole, so he holds them in two fingers and sneaks towards the valet in just his socks.

This same stylish sister, dressed in the height of fashion with a square-shoulder dark evening dress and contrast ermine shrug, sees his shoeless state when he joins her in the car, staring at him slack-jawed.

"Are you going to change into a frumpy shirt and one suspender?" Raven asks, appalled. "Or maybe take off your slacks and pull your underwear up to your nipples?"

"We're just going to the bed and breakfast, aren't we?" Charles mutters, smacking around his jacket pockets for his cigarette case. "I don't need shoes for eating and sleeping, do I?"

"Actually, yes you do," Raven says. "Papa says the dinner party's tonight."

"Dinner party -- tonight," Charles parrots, uncomprehending. "Oh, for fu --" He peers at the driver, briefly, sinking in his seat. The last thing he needs is it getting around that Dr. Marko's stepson has the uncouth mouth of a sailor. Not that _Marko_ minds, because he indulges Charles anything. Such information does get back to his mother, and the idea of a strongly-worded letter from her is incentive enough to watch his mouth.

" _Goodness sake._ For goodness sake," Charles says. Then groans. "Oh, God, that means we won't be stopping at the inn first, then? I'll have to keep these bloody things on my feet?"

"Ex- _actly_. Y'know, Charles, for a guy who got into graduate school at sixteen, you can be pretty dim," Raven says, patting his hand tenderly. Her needling words are her highest form of affection, and Charles always knows he's in trouble with her when she stops tenderly insulting his intelligence. He knows he’s a genius -- only Raven really keeps him from floating away with a swollen head.

Right now, he's just an easy target. But he still isn't going to wear those damn shoes until the absolute last moment.

"Is it an indoor party?" Charles asks, hopeful.

"Nope," Raven says, studying the invitation. " _Colonel Johann Leiden welcomes esteemed guests, Raven Darkholme Xavier and Charles Francis Xavier, to the enjoyment of an evening of outdoor refreshment in his hillside retreat,_ yadda yadda."

Spring is turning to summer, slowly and surely, and Charles knows that a night in these heat-swelling shoes and wool slacks may, indeed, kill him.

He says so: "I'm going to die tonight."

"Good," Raven says, folding the invitation and placing it in her handbag. "I'll get all your stuff. That's what the will says, right?"

"Ugh," Charles says. "I hate you."

Which isn't true, but he _does_ resent her, a little -- she's going to be just fine, whatever the weather. She's made out of sturdier stuff than Charles, and that was a fact. Not for his lack of trying -- it simply isn't possible to match Raven's resilience. No human can, because Raven is not human at all. She's something more. She’s a mutant.

 _Well, so am I, but not like it's helping me right now._ Charles puts his cheek flat on the window and shuts his eyes, letting the rocking car soothe him into a jerky little doze. It's not even worth smoking yet. He's only got a few left in his case, the rest of his carton in his luggage, and he's going to need them all to excuse himself from painful conversations with strangers.

 _Unless I want to bum some off of a_ handsome _stranger, of course._ That makes him laugh quietly at himself. All of these parties his father and his team of biologists have taken them to -- and indeed, most any high society event Charles has attended -- are packed with men nearly twice his age, at minimum. And the same men, half the time. A stagnant pool of dusty old cockerels.

Charles hopes this Leiden, a newly minted "patron of the sciences", will have brought in some new blood in -- preferably someone under the age of thirty. Attractive would be a bonus, but he's not been as picky as late as he should've been.

There are, occasionally, pretty daughters on hand, and they're always a joy to speak to even if women aren’t Charles’s preference. In fact, their very own Dr. Cavallo had gone earlier in the day to pick up his daughter Sabine, much to Raven's equal delight and distress. She knows Sabine from Charles's graduation a month prior, but she wants to _know_ Sabine. Her anxiety is practically radiating off of her, and without looking, he reaches over and grasps her gloved hand.

 _It's all right, love_ , Charles says, but not out loud. His mutation may not help him against sweaty outdoor evenings and pinched shoes, but it's still a powerful gift. One that, by its nature, he can't utilize lightly. Speaking to Raven, mind-to-mind, is far from frivolous use, though. It keeps him sharp and aware of one person and one person alone, keeping himself back from diving too far, ignoring everyone else. And comforting her, when she needs it.

 _Thanks, baby_. Raven squeezes his hand in return. _You okay over there? You look really uncomfortable._

 _Closing my eyes feels amazing_ , Charles thinks. _Maybe if I pass out..._

 _You are_ not _abandoning me!_ Raven thinks sharply, hitting his hand now. He draws it back to his lap, resuming his doze with a grin.

All too soon, the car jerks on an unpaved gravel road, and Charles blinks himself awake. He checks his watch and sees that he's apparently traveled twenty-five minutes into the future.

"Feel better?" Raven asks, while they sway comically in their seats as the car lurches down the road. Charles manages enough coordination to get a cigarette ready to light as soon as he's out the car.

"Everything except my feet," Charles reports, cigarette waggling in his mouth. "How's my hair?"

"Terrible," Raven says, and reaches to push Charles's side part into something resembling acceptable. "Oh, Lord, you really do need to tidy yourself up."

"Who’s even going to notice?" Charles mutters, picking at his collar. The car jerks to a halt in the parking lot, and they get out, Charles helping Raven as is proper. She adjusts her small hat, pushes up at her curls, then goes right into fixing Charles up with vague savagery as he attempts to light his cigarette around her arms.

She kicks his shin when he finally strikes a match correctly. "Your shoes," she hisses. “They're still in the car.”

"Shit," Charles says, turning back. He sighs. "I _thought_ I was too comfortable."

When finally shoed and smoking, Charles gives Raven his arm as the two of them make from the tree-lined green to Colonel Leiden's soiree.

It is not very impressive. The house is all one storey, which is not on its own a terrible thing, but it cannot decide what century it wants its decor to be from. The Grecian columns and steps are fine, but immediately upon entering the foyer, the bizarre curling Baroque makes their clean lines look half-formed in comparison. Charles is loathe to judge, but he knows "new money" when he sees it, and he adjusts himself accordingly. People are going to want to impress him and Raven tonight, which is going to be a trial. But also -- perhaps -- there will be some new faces, like Charles has so desired.

A quick scan of the banquet room shows his prospects are quite dim. There are a few new faces in the crowd, though, and he supposes that if he can get a close look, he might luck out. That is, if he's got enough in him to work a man to get into bed with him. A dance he may not want to do with these shoes.

That is the problem, as always: Charles is queer, has known he’s been queer since he was eight, and being queer in the current political climate is always less than ideal. Not that it's ideal to begin with. He's incredibly rich, and so it provides him a degree of security. He's young-looking and pretty regardless of whatever fashion he’s _not_ wearing, also in his favor. Yet he's not yet had any kind of encounter that's truly encouraged him to consider something more permanent. There's no way to experiment when your potential partners face possible persecution just by getting a thrill over an evening.

 _You see Sabine yet?_ Charles asks, gravitating towards where he smells food. He gives a few clusters of people a tight little smile, keeping his physical language set on “my shoes hurt and I am hungry, don’t talk to me”.

 _Not just yet, but I know she's coming, Glen told me_ , Raven thinks back. _But I did find Papa._

The tone of her 'voice' says it all. _Oh no, what's he done?_

 _Nothing yet_ , Raven thinks, with the sweet roll of mental laughter. _But you'd better get over here. He's a few sheets in._

Charles finds an ashtray to stub out his smoke, then navigates with great earnest towards where he senses Raven's presence. Indeed, she's bending near a chair not too far from the ballroom, a few tables from the banquet spread. In the chair is a balding man with a face that, while often jolly, is red with drink and a rather surly fighting spirit, though Charles and Raven were in no danger from that.

"I would have preferred the Metropole again," Dr. Kurt Marko says, _soto voce_ , but not really. Raven and Charles both can hear him just fine.

"Papa," Raven says, squeezing his arm. "We don't need fancy."

"Fancy's not what I care for, mademoiselle," Dr. Marko huffs, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief. Charles and Raven exchange looks over his back, both of them fond. "This is -- we're in a den of vipers, I tell you! Vipers."

"Dad, please, stop besmirching the name of good, hard-working reptiles," Charles says, as he and Raven begin to escort him around towards the back of the massive, open room. There, they stop in tandem to fan Dr. Marko as they sit him down in a lounge chair.

"You're just trying to make sure I don't get into a fight," Dr. Marko mutters, folding his arms on the table, head drooping.

"Maybe a little, papa," Raven says, kissing his balding crown. "You did give that one man a shiner a few months back. Where was that?"

"Oxford," Charles says, folding his jacket over his arm. He adjusts his vest, making sure he looks neat in his _dishabille_ state. It wasn’t white tie, after all. "Remember, they asked if I’d enter in the Spring semester instead of Fall?”

"Why the hell -- oh excuse me, Raven -- why in blazes did they do that again?"

Raven smothers her laughter behind her handbag.

"Because," Charles says, rubbing his father's shoulders, "they needed to make sure none of the tenured professors have a grudge for me having a hellion of a step-father. Don’t worry, I said no.”

"Oh, is that it! Cowards!" Dr. Marko wipes at his sweaty face with his kerchief. "Hoo, oh, it's rather hot in here?"

"It's why we moved you near the open windows, Papa," Raven says.

"You two need to go mingle," Dr. Marko mutters. "Didn’t you want to see her? Cavallo's little girl? Sabine? Not like you'd want to talk to _that_ old fart, of course it's Sabine --"

"That old fart is one of your best friends, Dad," Charles reminds him, going to pour him a some water from one of the sweating glass pitchers near the open windows. "Come on, drink this."

"This," Dr. Marko says rather darkly, "is not whiskey, Charles."

"It's another fine drink that starts with 'w'," Charles says, "and I have it on high authority that most living beings require it to sustain life."

"It still isn't whiskey." Dr. Marko drinks anyway.

"Do you think it's safe to leave him there?" Raven asks, as they make their way back to the center of the ballroom.

"I think if we can point Doctors Lazlo or Green in his direction," Charles says, gesturing to the crowd. He couldn’t see either of them, but he knew they were there: their mental signatures stood out, familiar as they were to him. "They'll handle him."

"We're bad children," Raven says, fidgeting with her handbag. "But he's not wrong, I want to see Sabine.”

"Then go," Charles says, shoving at her gently.

"What about you?"

"I'll get a drink," he says, hands in his pockets, pushing himself up on his wing-tips and down again with a wince, because being cheeky in these damn things was suffering, "and see if I can't find another man closer to my age than to the grave."

"Good luck, baby boy," Raven says, tugging him close for a kiss on the cheek, then pushing him away just as abruptly.

It is true that another evening at Hotel Metropole would have been preferable, but Colonel Leiden's residence near the Brussels-Flanders border had been perfect for the conference's crowd to enjoy the country air and the promise of a few rounds of golf the next day, which most people enjoyed more than lectures about projected advancements in genetics and biological research methods. Charles hates golf, and would prefer the lectures, but he's already had a chance to present his paper, and so the conference isn't yet a complete loss. If they are sent home because of his step-father's fisticuffs, all the better for their entertainment.

There's very little here for Charles, though. The music is decent, provided by a live band towards the entrance near the kitchens and the private household. Close to the courtyard, music creaks out via a large, ornate gramophone that faces into the candle-lit patio area outside. Charles plucks a glass of wine from a passing waiter and strolls outside. He turns to truly look at the estate, now: long, flat, and hastily constructed after the war, Leiden's opulence is in its ostentatious decorations and not in the actual _construction_ of the building. It won't last past his lifetime, Charles thinks, tipping back a good amount of very bland red wine. _If it even lasts five years._

Everyone who needs to be fooled that Leiden is a man to impress, is. If they can afford not to impress him, well, they still get a few rounds of free golf and fresh wine. _Even if it's shite_ , Charles decides as he drains his glass, _it's still wine_.

Leiden's fortune is in his sale of laboratory items, some recent manufactured, but with much of his bulk product coming from reclamation in war-torn areas. Dr. Marko swears he's just stolen everything because he's a "bleeding Nazi sympathizer", which Charles is inclined to believe. Seeing how lousy he is with money, how showy -- Charles doesn't doubt there's some kind of dirty money behind the gauche Cupid statues urinating into the main fountains and entire cratefuls of contraband luxuries spilling over the pavilion tables.

Their host is currently ensconced nearest the self-same hideous fountains, entertaining everyone with his gold-capped smile. He turns often to speak to someone at his side, to make sure they watch what he does next. That person is not, as Charles would have assumed otherwise, a woman, but a tall man in a sharply tailored pair of trousers and suit vest in contrast colors. The pinnacle of fashion. Unlike himself.

"Now, that's new..." Charles mutters, plucking a new wineglass from a nearby table, trying to get a better look at the man. He hasn't heard Colonel Leiden is a fairy, at least not from Dr. Glenda Green -- and she keeps him quite abreast of these things -- so this is a little strange. Maybe the man is part of some sort of displaced royalty and Leiden is doing a little song and dance to get access to someone else's money. Or --

\-- maybe he's just young and beautiful. Charles feels his fingers tingle a little once he gets close enough to see Leiden's hanger-on. Tall, with dark, curling hair that's tucked artfully in a perfect side part. His mouth is curled in a lazy smile, his pale blue-green eyes well-lashed, watching Leiden with indulgent interest. His shoulders speak of strength, his posture speaks of culture, and his attentiveness to the Colonel's yammering speaks of trying to ensnare this idiot man for some piece of his fortune.

Charles feels his ears ring with annoyance. Someone stunning like that, trying to impress this bumbling _nouveau riche_?

"Oh, you finally saw him, good."

Raven materializes from behind him like a ghost; Charles nearly spills wine all over himself.

"Raven, for God's sake," Charles says, hand to his chest. "Where -- when did --"

"Sabine wants to come out for a -- stroll," Raven says, clearing her throat and arranging the tight curls of her hair. "She went to go powder her nose."

"Like she needs it," Charles says. He's recovered enough to rib her. "And what, you saw this fellow and you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I wanted it to be a sur _-prise_ , Charles," Raven says, pushing at his shoulder. "I see he hasn't let up trying to hop on Leiden's lap, though."

"Ugh," Charles says, wrinkling his entire face in disgust. The dark-haired man is oblivious, that sleepy smile on his face contented. "I'm much cuter, and richer. I think."

"He's got to take a piss some time tonight," Raven says, shrugging and pulling out a compact to check her lip lacquer. Which is to say, she makes sure her lips are just the way she wants them, no makeup required. She moves her finger on them like she's applying a balm, the slight blue flicker of her power making her lips just a shade darker. Charles, now slightly drunk, find this fascinating, squinting at her finger.

"What? You've seen me do this. Anyway, as I was saying --"

"Something about him pissing, yes," Charles says, hands behind his back. He shakes his head, curls flopping free in his face. "Well, shall I go accost him a little in the toilets? That goes well for me."

"Ohhh, yeah," Raven says, rolling her eyes. She tries to adjust Charles’s hair again, to some success. "You know what I mean. Grab him before he gets back out there with Colonel I Deal In Stolen War Spoils. Give him a drink, have a smoke with him." Raven bumps their hips together. " _Try_ for once, you egghead."

"I can achieve great things," Charles says, digging in his pocket now for his cigarette tin, drawing one out and tapping it sharply, "if I am not trying to date people within two decades of my age group."

"That is still _so_ sad, and _so_ gross," Raven says, patting his cheek. "Come on, Cupid. Aim for the stars. And," she touches her finger to her temple briefly, "give me a sign if he wants to end up taking you out for a stroll, huh?"

"I will, darling," Charles says.

He lingers on the patio a big longer, watching the handsome stranger long after Raven has left his side. Charles has decided to drink some water, not entirely desiring of a hangover, and he wants a chance to drink with the stranger. If the stranger ever disengages with the Colonel.

It doesn't seem to be happening any time soon, though, and Charles finds himself oroperly hungry. He trails back up the stairs where the party inside is dying down. There's still food to pick at, and he finds his fill in cheeses and grapes, glad for something recognizable -- he isn't sure he wants to take a chance on the unopened tins of Russian caviar. Once he's had his fill, he finds himself tired, disinterested in the hunt he was on. _Not tonight, I suppose._

Until the stranger walks from the patio into the open ballroom, all fine tailored lines and chiseled features, and Charles grabs the nearest glass of wine to sip, watching Leiden's far-too-attractive hanger-on make his way towards the study area. He’d noticed the study has its own set of private balconies that overlook the small lake on the property, and the hills beyond it. He waits for ten antsy minutes to allot the stranger a few moments alone, but Charles knows that if he doesn't impose now, he's not going to get the chance later. He also tells himself he's not going to read the man on purpose, whatever else. It spoils the fun, and when he's drinking, Charles has to make the decision between shielding his mind from the world around him and using his powers. The former is paramount in unknown places.

The balcony the stranger has chosen is the one furthest away from all the noise. He is bent in perfect lines over the balustrade, cigarette in one hand, an empty tumbler in the other, ice melting. He doesn't startle when Charles comes up beside him, but he does seem mildly surprised that anyone has followed him here.

"Good evening," Charles says, placing the wine beside the stranger's elbow. "I thought I'd join you away from the maddening crowd."

"Don't you mean, _'I hope I'm not imposing'_?" the stranger asks. It's a friendly little challenge, said mildly, his light eyes scanning Charles from head to toe.

"Why for? I bloody well am imposing," Charles says, grinning, raising his glass. "I would've brought something stronger, but it's easier to get my hands on these."

The stranger chuckles. He turns around to accept the glass, sips it.

"Swill," he says, still mild.

"He has a good bottle or two in the study, I bet,” Charles says, looking back. "Maybe I should grab that?"

The stranger's brows lift. "You --"

"Oh, we can switch the bloody labels," Charles says, wagging a hand.

"I think stealing from the Colonel's own study while we are guests in his house is a bit gauche."

 _Here we go. Test the waters. See if he’s so in with Leiden that he’ll balk at a little politics. You're Dr. Marko's boy, after all._ Charles leans against one of the wood-carved pillars, tilting his head so his wayward curls fall just so in his face, free from the pomade. With the right angle in this kind of light -- sconces, with real fire -- and he knows he can look quite charming.

"Between you and I," Charles says, "that study's more full of things the Colonel's stolen himself. I think filching some of his wine isn't amiss, on that account."

"Ah," the stranger says, tilting his head to the other side. His expression betrays nothing. "So, we do good, by doing a similar but less avaricious act?"

"Oh, I'm not saying we'd be doing good at all, friend, only that he's not one that should point fingers at thieves," Charles says, lifting his wine glass to his mouth, "and we deserve to be drinking better wine."

The man blinks at Charles a few times, a strange curve of his well-formed mouth, as if he's not sure what he's just heard. He laughs then, surprisingly light, and then sips the wine again.

"Cheers, then," he says, and holds his hand out. The shake is firm, and Charles makes sure to return in kind. "Erik."

"Erik, a pleasure. Charles Xavier."

"Charles," Erik repeats, drawing back. “The name’s familiar. You’re with the scientists, then."

"'Scientists first, specialists second'," Charles says brightly. "As Dr. Cavallo would say. We are a motley crew, yes?"

"From all around the world," Erik says. "What are you, a faithful lab assistant?"

"No, Dr. Marko's step-son," Charles says, "and, well, yes, an assistant. For now. I'm starting my doctorate tract next year."

"Aren't you coming up in the world," Erik murmurs, a bit of a jibe, but friendly enough. "You're a little young. yes?"

"I'm old enough to get a man drinks on a balcony without worrying about too much of a scandal," Charles says.

"And so bold, too."

"Yes," Charles says, and plucks his unlit cigarette from behind his ear. "Do you have a light?"

The man leans over. Up close, Charles can see the curl of his lips, and a thrill goes through him as the man touches the cherry of his cigarette to light Charles's own. It's a very intimate gesture, but Charles is steady despite his sudden onset of butterflies.

"Thank you," Charles says, inhaling the fragrant tobacco. "Ah, God. I really did need a smoke."

"You've been abandoned, haven't you?" Erik says after a moment of silence, leaning easily against the rail again. "You need someone to talk to."

"Well, not abandoned," Charles says, laughing softly. "You're the only other person here close to my age group. Perhaps I'm looking for a bit of solidarity, eh?"

"Well, if you were concerned about that," Erik says, still politely condescending, "maybe you shouldn't have been so very eager to finish your studies at a very early age. There aren't many eighteen-year-olds in a doctorate track, I don't think."

"Nineteen in a month, and yes, I'm aware." Charles wags his cigarette between his lips as he’s wont to do, speaking through it. "You guessed close. Most people think I'm much younger."

"You didn't seem to be anyone's pet project, if you catch my meaning," Erik says.

"I have my own pet projects, I don't have time for anyone's affairs but mine."

"Ah, but that blond you're with?"

Charles's face flushes. "You mean, the woman? My _sister_."

"Sister," Erik says. He sounds appreciative, which is not at all what Charles wants out of this exchange. _Oh, Charles, you idiot, of course he doesn't actually like men. Leiden is a mark he's just willing to go all the way for._

That, he shoves away before he loses his nerve. No, if this Erik fellow is willing to get fucked by Colonel Leiden for gain, he could make an exception for someone far more pretty and charming: himself. Charles passes a hand over his head to adjust his curls, to let another one loose.

"I'm usually driving people towards her, it's true," he sighs, looking forlornly in the direction of the gardens. "I have a routine that works well, like clockwork. Though I dare say you won't be running to her; she's occupied for the night."

"Oh, no," Erik says, chuckling and turning around to lean backwards against the railing. "I've got to hear what you _intentionally_ do to make people avoid you."

"It's not just that," Charles says, honestly a bit hurt. "I just start to talk about my studies, is all. They get a bit bored after a while."

"So the repellent isn't your sugary charm," Erik murmurs. He finishes off his wine. "Or your bold impositions."

Charles's mouth pinches slightly. Erik is not pleased with Charles interrupting him, though he is being polite enough around the barbs. It's not that Charles hasn't suffered this kind of roadblock before. He takes a breath, deciding to barrel through.

"Let's begin -- could you come into the light? I'd like to see you."

Erik's brow lifts, and he shrugs, as if to himself, and then steps into the light shining from the balcony doorway. Charles reaches up and very, very delicately, touches one of the slightly loose hairs from Erik's careful coiffed 'do.

"Yes, yes. Your hair. Very subtle, but I can see it -- it's auburn, isn't it? Just a touch of it." Charles grins, stepping back and passing a hand over his chin, feeling the very subtle shadow forming at the end of the day. "My hair -- dark brown through and through, but: my whiskers grow in ginger. It means you and I are part of a rather select club."

"Oh?" Erik looks almost interested.

"Yes," Charles says. "You and I, friend, are mutants."

This is the line that perplexes most people -- they are either intrigued or offended. It's clear Erik is an outlier in this data set: he goes utterly, completely still at what Charles says, and his handsome face goes dangerously blank for a moment before resolving itself in something resembling amusement again.

"Are we now," Erik says.

"Your hair, my whiskers -- they're all different levels of the mutation of the MC-1R gene," Charles goes on, his heart hammering, and not in a pleasant way. He's glad he has this entire thing memorized. "Our blue eyes, too -- a corruption of the HERC2 gene. You and I are part of a proud history of deviations in the human genetic code, the very stuff that took us from single-celled organisms to what we are today."

"Ah," Erik says. He seems to be forcing himself to relax now, though his jaw is still tense. Charles knows it has to have been the word -- "mutant" -- that had put him on alert.

"Well, well, there you are," Charles says. He's playing it off as if he's sensed annoyance, rather than what was clearly on Erik's face: menace, danger. He doesn't need psychic powers to understand that. "See, I told you it runs people off to my sister. I mean, it's true, the logic's sound and so's the science.”

Capitulating seems to bring a bit of softness to the surface of Erik's face, but only for a flickering moment. It does, however, put his guard back down a fraction, which takes all the tiger-like tension with it. He steps away from the light, taking his wine glass in hand.

"Well, I'm just driven to drink," Erik says. "You said you know where a bottle is in this study?"

"We can certainly look."

If Charles held hope for a good tumble, he's certainly had it dashed now. _I should've known better_ , he thinks, easily picking out the most likely place for a hidden stash of alcohol, finding spirits rather than wine. Erik is busy looking at the man's desk, curious about a few drawers, finding a few locked and looking rather perplexed at them. Charles makes to rub his temple, planning to skim Erik's mind for a brief idea of what kind of hard liquor he preferred for one last-ditch attempt at --

**Ne jouons pas ce jeu --**

I wonder how long it will take for you to lose consciousness from blood loss? Of course, I could make it stop

**JE VEUX SCHMIDT**

_EIN_

You can either tell me now, and I make it easy, or you can die very slowly. The choice is

**\-- tou ce reste de mon peuple**

_ZWEI_

Truly, I have all night, but I'd give you only a

**OÚ EST-IL**

Johann Leiden now, is it? It's a bit far from Otto Richter. Oh, I do I remember hi

_DREI_

**VOUS NE SAVEZ PAS?**

You have been very kind with your time. I will certainly keep my end of the --

Charles stumbles forward at the memory-sensation of a gunshot, hitting his thigh against the side of Leiden's desk. It is certain to bruise, he knows it, but right now, all he can feel is the rolling nausea and the absolute, unmitigated terror that comes with seeing what he has now seen. More than one man, splayed out before the knife, begging for their lives, bleeding, or dead. And then the intent to do it again, tonight: the sight of Colonel Leiden, tied up, naked and spread eagle and being gutted like a fish.

"Charles?"

Erik is poised at the desk. He's got a true look of concern on his face, as one might for a dog that's suddenly began acting strangely. Charles straightens up, blinking rather dramatically to hide the fact he's almost in tears, out of breath in the sudden onset of panic.

"Bent down a bit too quick," he says, wiping at his face with a clumsy grin. "Maybe I've had a bit too much."

Erik smiles in a manner that might've made Charles twitterpated only five minutes ago, but now just fills him with dread. _He's got such a pretty face_ , Charles thinks, _and such a violent, frightening mind._

"Maybe you have," Erik says. "Well, look, why don't I walk you to ballroom, Charles. I think both of us know how the night's going."

"Oh, I'm aware," Charles says, making a wince of a smile, hoping it looks embarrassed rather than an ape's fear-grin. "You've been quite kind to me."

"There is no need to be cruel to honest enthusiasm," Erik says, taking Charles's empty wine glass. "Come, let's go."

"I'll be right behind you," Charles says, and lets Erik leave on his own before collapsing beside the desk to catch his breath and calm his mind. To his relief, Erik does not return to find him.


	2. Part One - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s done all sorts of mad things before, but none seems as dire as befriending a murderer, fellow mutant or not.
> 
> But Charles Xavier isn’t necessarily known for his common sense, and so, he’s going to do it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Warnings: Explicit Torture & Death**

> _"I am responsible for your actions."_

-xxx-

Charles spends much of the next hour itching to find Raven. He doesn’t want to disturb her (more for his own mortification of getting a headful of lusty thoughts about Dr. Carvallo's daughter) but there's a murder about to happen, and he certainly thinks she’ll forgive him for that.

Otto Richter is the name Erik had connected with Colonel Leiden, along with a heavy dose of personal enmity. Could the man truly be hiding a terrible past? It's possible that the handsome young stranger trying to dive into the man's over-decorated bed is a hired assassin, perhaps making sure Leiden doesn’t pass on the name of his co-conspirators from the war. Or, maybe Leiden's pissed off the wrong people -- may be he hadn't been heavily involved in the war, and had simply stolen from the backs of the dead and now someone wants their cut. A distasteful thing, to be sure, but if an opportunistic thief is _all_ Leiden is --

The chance of Leiden being a relatively innocent man versus him being a Nazi is, as far as Charles has sussed out, not _so_ slim that he can ignore a man in danger. Leiden's about to be tortured and murdered by a man and one of the most chaotic minds Charles has touched in recent memory.

When Raven saunters her way back in from the gardens, looking for the last pitchers of ice water, Charles all but flails at her. Raven's eyes boggles as he grasps her wrist.

" _Please t_ ell me I can talk to you," Charles says, low. "I really, really need --"

"Woahhh, Charles," Raven says, leaning back and holding her wrist. Not like she's been hurt -- she could toss Charles in the air like a baseball, if ever necessary. "Let's slow down here. What -- just -- let me go get some water for Sab?"

"May I come with you?" Charles pleads. "I just need to explain to you what's going on."

Raven is alarmed now, her face openly expressing her concern. "Yeah, yeah. Okay, let's go."

 _I talked to him_ , Charles thinks at Raven, easily slipping into the compartment of Raven's mind that he occupies when he's talking to her alone, a place to be that doesn't interfere with the rest of her thoughts. _He didn't seem to appreciate my presence, but he humored me._

 _A deep thinker, huh_ , Raven thinks back, making a face. _Thinking about that wizened old Colonel dick, I suppose._

 _Raven! That's awful_ , Charles thinks, wrinkling his nose. It might have looked, to the outsider, that they have both smelled something unpleasant. _Wizened or not, though, the Colonel is in danger._

_In danger. How?_

_The handsome stranger, Erik is his name_ , Charles thinks, _I had a brief view of his mind trying to figure out what kind of drink he liked._

 _Oh, you poor bastard_ , Raven thinks, sipping her water and trying to look normal as they weaved around the other party guests towards the hedge maze. _I'm guessing you did_ not _like what you saw in there._

_Leiden has information he needs. He's going to flay the man open like a frog on a dissection table, Raven, and by God, I don't know if I should --_

Raven whirls around. "Are you serious? You saw _that?_ " she says out loud.

"Yes," Charles says, waving her into some of the lumpy topiary. "Other things, too, just flashes on the surface. He's disturbed, Raven. He's killed before, I saw it."

"What the hell did Leiden do?" Raven asks, then looks around quickly and thinks, _is he a Nazi, like Papa says?_

 _I don't know for certain. Even if he is, shouldn't he be arrested for war crimes instead?_ Charles inhales, rubbing his eyes with a hand. It's late and he knows he has a long night ahead of him. _And if he's innocent... what would my powers be for, if not for things like this?_

Raven is quiet, gazing into her water glass as if scrying the future.

"Let me say goodnight to Sabine," she says, turning to Charles and then, briefly, touching his face. He tilts into it with the desperate desire for comfort, letting her feelings sink into the forefront of his mind.

"Thank you," he whispers, half in feeling and half in words.

"Hey." Raven shakes his head a little side-to-side, always a little careless with him when she needs his attention. "What do you feel?"

Charles smiles and shuts his eyes. This old routine, as old as their friendship, their bond. "How much you love me."

Another little shake. "Aaand?"

"How fond you are of me."

"What else?"

Charles inhales and Reaches. It helps Raven focus her mind, as well as his, to narrow her thoughts down to one thing. Between them he wants her to have her privacy. These key phrases unlock the moment where he is allowed in.

"How worried you are for me," he says, opening his eyes. "And that you're a bit sad I can't find a normal man."

"It's true, it's a damn shame!" Raven kisses his cheek. "Meet me where we left Papa, near the library. I'm going to need to get you some better clothes and, I know, _shoes._ And before you ask -- Papa and the flock are safe at the bed and breakfast, so they'll be far away from this mess."

"Thank you, darling," Charles says. "Give my regards to the girl, yes?"

"Maybe," Raven says.

Charles returns to the estate. It's getting colder, though it's still muggy from all the windows and doors being open into the night; he assumes it's more than lightly shut tight most of the time. He makes use of the toilet, washes his hands well, then sits and puts his forehead down on the table with a touch of unconscious dramatics.

Then he Reaches out beyond him, to See.

He had first come into his powers at the tender age of eight. It wasn’t long after that his mother had sent him overseas to "stay with his uncle" when he displayed strange behavior as a result. The truth that his uncle _did_ live in the area he'd been sent. It'd been a convenient cover for the truth, for where Charles was truly headed: an asylum for the mentally ill. He may have stayed indefinitely if a Blitz hadn't struck the nearby port at Clydebank and the place evacuated as a result.

Whatever horrors Charles has seen in Erik's head, he has at least seen a few of his own that can soften the blow. He will not flinch from this if he can help it; it isn’t his way. So he Reaches to find that signature static of Erik’s mind, the strange juxtaposition of German, French, and English, and then, strikes gold.

But it isn’t Erik he inhabits. No, he moves one mind over, to the man tucked next to him: Leiden. Images of a nearby cottage fill his mind, as well as a few rather stomach-churning sensations of crude lust for his killer-to-be. Erik on the bed, under Leiden, spread but not for the schemes Erik has planned for the Colonel.

Erik almost seems resigned in the vision to Leiden's machinations. Charles wonders if that is his own projection of distate, and not Leiden's true sentiments at all.

There's a swell of relief and excitement from Leiden when Erik consents to make way to the private cottage atop the hill. Charles pulls back before Leiden's surface sensations can get more sordid, feeling as if he needs a cleansing hot shower before he takes off on this rescue mission.

Raven returns with him less fussy clothing she’s confiscated from the house. They head to the servant's house, at the foot of the private drive. She keeps watch while he changes.

The boots she's gotten him fit well, but he discovers the damnable wing-tips have given him blisters. The cottage is easily accessible on foot, barely more than kilometer, and he can suffer that long. Charles puts a cap square on his head, fitting it around his curls. Raven's form shifts and she matches him, cap and all. Now they look like particularly enterprising twin peasants from the Great War.

"What are you going to do, when you get there?" she asks, Raven's tone and American accent in Charles's voice.

"I don't exactly know yet," Charles says. "I'm sure I can stop him."

Raven's expression doesn't change. "What if Leiden's an actual Nazi?"

"I'll still have to stop him," Charles says, firm. "Dad knows where to stick Nazis, yeah?"

"I guess," Raven says, shrugging. She frowns at the noises she's making and adjusts something. When she talks again, it's with her own voice this time.

"Come on," she says. "They've turned the lights on. I think we're on a tight window before loverboy starts stabbing."

The clothes are a little stuffy for the evening, but they certainly help them blending into the heavily-wooded areas. They keep flush towards the road a bit to avoid any wild predators, and Charles mentally scouts ahead to feel for human ones. There's a light guard, but Leiden is probably more concerned about keeping his liaisons _private_ than _protected._

They find a man literally asleep on the job at the garage. Charles slips into his mind easily, puppets him around a bit, nudging into the man's mind for information Raven might need while impersonating him. He tucks the man against a nice tree for a snooze, then binds and gags him while he stares forward, completely docile.

"Sleep," he says, and the man sags in his bonds.

"Are you sure about this? Last chance." Raven asks, as the stranger's shape ripples over her. Charles takes off his cap, runs his fingers through his hair, sweat making the pomade melt. He wipes his sticky hands on his borrowed coat.

"I have to do _something_ ," he says, if more to himself than anyone.

"I know," Raven's temporary new voice rumbles, touching Charles's head. "Get 'em, Charles, and be safe."

Charles nods, stands up, puts a finger to his temple, and shows himself in the front door.

This is no bold hero's choice, just the most convenient one: Charles is now invisible to everyone he comes across, a web of illusion reaches beyond him. He isn't quite certain of the science, yet, but it's something he _exudes_ right now rather than manipulates.

The guard dogs in the living room lift their heads from their beds to watch him, but don't bark or chase. Animals didn't have the same thought patterns as a person, a frequency Charles can't quite ken to, so he's not invisible to them. Just harmless.

 _Don't be ashamed, fellows, I seem harmless to plenty of people in real life too_ , he thinks with a private smile, keeping up his search for Erik before he can go through with the deed.

 _Deeds._ Charles pulls a face and tries to remind himself he's attempting to save a life, either by making sure an innocent man doesn't get slaughtered or -- still possible, he supposes -- have a Nazi to serve out his only life's use, and that is to stand trial for his crimes against humanity. Either way, justice. And much less bloodshed. Hopefully.

The top level of the cottage is a remodel atop something much older. By sight, Charles notices the walls and ceiling are not unlike the prefabricated homes he's seen in the 'States and in West Germany, made for the American troops, painted with modern fashions in mind. The older building is far sturdier and permanent; Charles finds a twisting stairway, the new metal handrails do not quite detract from the century-old mason work.

The smells are also different. Ground water, places that have recently been scoured free of mold. Damp charcoal. None of the guards are down here, and there is only the stray house cat to shoo away. There is indeed a rustic, practical nature to the place that speaks of less affluent owners, once upon a time. People long dead now, or, having fled, deciding not to return.

Charles finds a good place to hide himself, to drop his illusion in favor of Reaching to find Erik and the Colonel. But first --

 _Are you still safe out there?_ Charles asks.

 _Oh yeah, old Rudolph here's still snoring away,_ Raven thinks back. _Has some_ interesting _magazines up here. I’m practicing my French reading the articles, having a good time with that._

 _All right, well,_ Charles thinks, _cheers_ , and opens up the Gates.

Fear strikes him first, tremors of pain in the midst of it. Charles reels back in immediately so he doesn’t soil himself in the shock, like Leiden has. The man's lost control of a lot of things. Charles takes a deep breath and looks down the hallway. No guard, just a few fanciful double doors lit with frosted lanterns and set with a filigree frame.

Getting in the room will be tricky, Charles knows. He has to get the door open, and he that can muddle a person's sight to a degree. If he could just burst in and confront Erik it'd be one thing, but what little he knows of the other mutant, he’s probably violently ready for any sort of interruption. He won't bet his life on being cocky about his abilities.

The door is not locked. Charles puts a hand to the latch and pushes it up slowly while he sets out the net of blindsight once more, opening the door only enough to slip in.

The room smells awful: bad cologne, piss and blood. Like the vision in Erik’s mind, Charles sees Leiden spread out on his bed, arms anchored to the metal headboard by its own ornamentation, strange enough. He's gagged and drooling at current, and his eyes are glassy and wide as they follow the man stalking in front of the bed.

Erik is handsome in distant profile, all of his features like those formed at the end of a steady chisel and mallet in polished stone. The blood spattered across the bridge of his nose are the color he retains; he is pale as Death. In his hands is a small, thin dagger.

It is, at least it appears to be at this distance, _hovering._

Charles blinks and rubs his eyes with a free hand. He focuses on his well-made hands, and yes -- yes, the dagger _is_ hovering. Twirling without so much as Erik touching it, aside from a fond caress for a favored tool.

Any thought of saving Leiden has now become second to disengaging Erik from this game he's playing -- _game, Charles? he's_ torturing _someone!_ \-- and to talk about just how he's making metal dance on his whim.

"You are more resilient than your other friends in Switzerland," Erik says, in German. It's simple enough that Charles can keep up. He creeps closer, still crouched. "The banker told me of a place in Argentina where some mutual friends have moved, Villa Gesell. I merely pulled his filings out until he told me, what a smart fellow. The police inspector told me all about _you_ , though it took some time. Poor fellow didn’t make it. And speaking of you --"

The blade zips forward, right at Leiden's face. Charles winces in advance. Miraculously the dagger stops centimeters in front of Leiden's forehead. It was never going to strike. Leiden screams regardless, muffled beneath the wadded fabric in is mouth.

"--you've got more information, I know it. Because you're more than just a friend of a friend, Otto dear. You were more than happy to take your riches and run, but _I_ remember you."

Erik, his back to Charles, begins to unbutton the wrist of his left shirt sleeve. He turns his arm towards the man trapped against the bed.

Charles knows what he’s showing off, even before Erik speaks, and his whole body goes cold. It is no surprise that Erik has been left frustrated, furious: what he has endured is far past most people's ken, even Charles.

"You were so proud of your branding work, Herr Ritcher," Erik says. "Do you remember mine? While you hovered over me in Schmidt's office? You _liked_ to look at me, but oh, look but don't touch -- you knew who I belonged to, knew it wouldn't be worth trying. And now I want to know where _he_ is."

Leiden -- Ritcher --- shuts his eyes tightly, shaking his head, gurgling behind the gag in fear.

"Or are you still afraid of him?" Erik smiles. Charles can feel the almost giddy sound of it in his voice. He mounts the bed, slides up slowly between Leiden’s legs, as if they were about to make love. "More than you are of me?"

The blade hovers again, twisting from his fingertips, and trails down the side of Leiden’s face, leaving the lightest line of blood.

"Look at me now," Erik whispers, very close to the man's face, his voice sweet. "Do you still think I'm pretty, Herr Ritcher? You must. You let me in very, _very_ close, tonight."

With a gesture of his palm, the knife slides across the man's chest. Blood arcs high from the bed, splattering Erik's vest, his white shirt. Ritcher screams and sobs into his gag, but he isn't dead.

Yet.

Charles is at a crossroads, one that's becoming increasingly hard to remain at. There is no _proo_ f Leiden is this Nazi Ritcher, and that Erik is just a madman who's picked the wrong mark, but --

A gun cocks, over-loud in the room, and Charles freezes in place.

"A shame," Erik says. He's sitting up on his knees now, looking at the gun in his hands, and then aiming it at Leiden’s head. "I thought I'd be able to get a bit more out of you, but you simply keep shaking your head 'no' -- I can find someone else to play with, in Argentina.”

"Stop! Don't kill him!"

Charles has his hand out, his hand grasping his cap. Erik's wild look as he turns is near enough to trigger Charles’s fight-or-flight response.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Erik asks, in English, voice pitched in contempt. "How the hell did you --"

"Just step away from him, Erik," Charles says. He's trying to keep himself from _forcing_ Erik into doing what he’s asking, because it’ll make him less amenable to speaking later about more important things.

 _‘You and I, friend, are mutants.’ And not just_ any _mutants._

"Are you with him?" Erik asks. He is still very pale, his nostrils are wide with new anger. "With this fucking _Nazi?_ "

"Of course not," Charles snaps. He's keeping his eyes out for Erik's dagger and the gun, but it's hard to divide his attention now. "If he's one, then he can stand trial. You don't have to kill him!"

"You have no say in what I do," Erik says, lifting the gun and aiming at Leiden --

\-- and then staring at his own hand as it trembles, finger lifting from the trigger and to the guard.

"What --"

Erik is dumbfounded as Charles concentrates fully on Forcing. It's impossible to keep the noise of Erik's personal chaos completely out of his mind, the fury and -- _fear_ \-- 

" _How are you_ _doing this_ \--"

"Just step away, Erik. We -- you and I are both gifted -- we have much to talk about! But you're taking such a huge risk, you haven't --" The truth comes out of Charles’s mouth as it occurs to him, linked as he is with Erik's subconscious. "-- you have never played such a risky move, having people know where you're going, but you want to know if someone knows _exactly_ where --”

" _Get out of my head!_ "

Erik snarls audibly, mentally bucking like a bull in a pen and the tether between them snaps. Charles scatters towards cover and makes himself invisible, crouching near Leiden’s oak desk. Erik has his dagger out, spinning beside him menacingly.

"A psychic, then," Erik says, pacing slowly now, "and a powerful one. Interesting. If you're not with Ritcher -- did _he_ send you, Charles?"

The 'he' is a strange sensation to hear. It is almost like He, capitalized, with the sense of dread and hatred and heartache combined in one breath. Whoever "He" was, though, Charles hadn't the faintest.

"I'm here because -- because I saw you were going to kill him," Charles says. He's trying to bounce his voice off the other side of the wall, and it works. Erik whirls towards it, dagger at the ready, but finding nothing. 

"If he was guilty or not," Charles says, "I had to stop you, either way!"

"Or you could have minded your own _gottverdammt_ business," Erik seethes, and then pivots abruptly, reaching a hand towards Charles's hiding spot.

Charles is yanked forward by his right wrist. It's his watch that Erik’s got, and Charles fumbles with it to get it off, but this has broken his concentration in full and he’s _visible_ now and he can't put his mind into Erik’s, who now has some very studied barriers up, and they do not shield the fact Erik is effervescent with anger, a fighting creature that Charles has disturbed on the hunt.

He manages to get the watch off, throws it down. His left arm shoots up immediately after and Charles makes a noise of real pain: Erik has his school ring.

"Gold allergy, eh?" Erik says, while Charles fights between getting away and getting his finger yanked off. "Stainless steel with a platinum casing."

"Let me," Charles gasps, hearing his knuckle crack under the strain, "let me go --"

His finger dislocates with a pop and Charles cries out, enough that his bond with Raven is affected. His distress radiates towards her, and he tries to stop it, but it's too late. Raven's heard his cry of pain in her mind.

 _Don't come in here! I've got this!_ he cries out. Erik shoves Charles's injured hand away; Charles cradles it towards his chest, gasping, sweat running down his neck.

"Answer me," Erik says, lifting Charles's chin with his blood-slick dagger. " _Are you with Him?_ "

"I am bloody well not with _anyone_ but myself!" Charles yells, not willing to budge, tears of pain now pricking his eyes.

" _Useless."_ The dagger hovers over Charles's forehead, taps it, then takes a sharp turn and shoots in the opposite direction. Towards the bed, and right into Leiden’s skull.

Charles's shout strangles in his throat. He feels the burst of consciousness that comes with death, the sudden jarring of the spirit and its electrical impulses being severed from the physical body. A brief wave of nausea takes him and he holds his mouth with his good hand, staring at Erik.

Erik grabs Charles by the hair, dragging him towards the bed like he's so much luggage. He shoves Charles to the ground, and Charles struggles to recover from the psychic backlash Leiden's death had on him. There's a rather ungraceful squelching noise and the pop of something coming out of socket -- Erik’s dagger, prying free from the dead Nazi's head -- and Charles knows he has few precious moments to spare.

"We can talk about this," Charles says, pushing up on his good arm. His left hand hums with pain, his mind feels swollen. "You're -- you're like _me_ , we shouldn't -- be fighting like this."

"Just because we're both _mutants_ ," Erik says, spitting the last word out like it's no more than refuse, "doesn't mean we're friends, _boy_."

Charles looks up at Erik, evening out his breathing, from panic to calm. He must be calm. The dagger hovers obediently by Erik's side, dripping blood and white brain matter.

"I'm no more a boy than you are, _Erik Lehnsherr_ ," Charles says, and Erik balks at his full name, which Charles has stolen from his mind. Charles moves slowly, considering his options. An attempt at taking over Erik now would leave Charles's body vulnerable to that knife and Erik's murderous resolve. "Are you so certain you can get away with this?"

"Are you going to tattle on me to your _daddy?_ " Erik says, lip curling. "I don't need lectures from a schoolboy _fop_ like you."

"Then why haven't you killed me, Erik?"

This is possibly the stupidest thing Charles has said in his entire life, and he’s said his fair share of stupid things, according to his vast empirical knowledge on the matter. He sees Erik's nostrils flare again, and he is even paler up close. His eyes seem hollowed; he’s sweating profusely. Unconsciously, he skims Erik’s static, and finds --

_He's exhausted. Is he exerting himself this much?_

" _Get out of here._ " The blade dips, dances near Charles's throat, and jerks back into Erik's shaking hand. "Get out, and don't tell anyone what's happened here. Or I will find you, Charles Xavier, and I _will_ kill you.”

Charles knows he could easily bowl Erik over now, could take hold of the mutant's mind with ease, but that isn't going to do either of them any good. There's still a murder to cover up, and Erik already has it, or at least, thinks he does.

No, this is Erik's way of saying the exact thing Charles had: _You're like me. We shouldn't be fighting like this._ Except with actions, rather than words. Charles can appreciate that.

With his good hand up in supplication, the injured hand tucked close to his side, Charles stands and backs out of the door. When he's in the hallway, the door twists shut with a slam, the metal latches twining around each other like overgrown vines. Charles knows the moment when Erik all but collapses on the other side of the door, overcome with taxing his powers to their limit.

Charles must leave him here, if he wants to get to the bottom of Erik's end goal, to convince him to leave revenge behind. It’s a fool’s errand, a dangerous one. He’s done all sorts of mad things before, but none seems as dire as befriending a murderer, fellow mutant or not.

But Charles Xavier isn’t necessarily known for his common sense, and so, he’s going to do it anyway.


	3. Part One - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Noble, now? Are you sure you're not making this man up in your head, Charles?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind comments and support! I'm so grateful. ♥ This one is short, but it's a multimedia chapter.

> " _Can you not see that little light up there?"_  
>  "Where?"  
>  _"There!"_  
>  "Where?"  
>  _"Over here."_

-xxx-

Raven is halfway down the stairwell when Charles emerges. Still knocked silly from his encounter, Charles nearly panics before he realizes that it _is_ Raven, and not a guard racing to protect a man who is quite past the point of help.

 _Is anyone behind you?_ he thinks.

_No. But there's still people around -- should we get out of here?_

Straight to the point. Raven _knows_ Charles is injured, but that both of them prize safety over discomfort. Charles focuses to hide them, wincing as it takes more effort than usual. Raven drops her disguise, and the two of them make it to the road.

"You've overextended yourself," Raven says.

"It's -- a long story, but Raven, he -- he's one of us."

Raven’s eyes grow wide, a little amber in the shock. Then practicality takes hold. She guides them down the hill and to their car. Charles holds his throbbing head as they take the bumpy road to the nearby inn that’s been rented out to their travelling party. Once at the inn, she shoos Charles into the vacant servant’s rooms, where their luggage is. He stares at a change of clothes like it’s a box puzzle, not sure how to get out of his borrowed clothes and into his own things with his injured hand.

When he gets a proper look at the injury, he balks: it’s swollen red around the ring. He tries flexing it, and it obeys, but not without pain.

"He do that?" Raven asks, flicking open the medical kit they bring with them for when Charles has been roughed up.

"Yes, he -- pulled me toward him with some kind of -- of power. Because it was steel, I think. 've probably strained some ligaments, we need to get it back into position and then we can set it like a break for now."

"Gotcha," Raven says. She turns Charles's injured hand over and wipes it down with a chilly wet cloth to get the ring off.

Raven doesn't ask if Leiden is dead. She doesn't have to. It's a foregone conclusion. She hasn't asked more about Erik's power, letting Charles gather his thoughts. All of this she does instinctively, because she and Charles are part of a greater sum.

"He's heading to Argentina," Charles says.

"So that means we are too, huh," Raven murmurs. And rolls Charles's finger back into place without warning.

Charles makes a noise he’s not thought himself capable of since puberty. "Oh, _Jesus_ , that hurts!"

"Tell Jesus something else he didn't know," Raven mutters, wrapping a splint around the swollen digit. "You're lucky we know the first goddamn thing about medicine, otherwise we'd have had to explain this to Glen.”

"Thank God we don't," Charles murmurs, flexing his hand, trying to imagine what Dr. Green would make of this. "She’ll ask me what strange new sex thing I've been up to."

"Getting your ass yanked around by a handsome mutant?" Raven teases, patting the cloth at Charles's forehead now. "Do you even know where in Argentina he's going to be?"

“A place called Villa Gesell, to find more information -- he’s looking for someone named Schmidt. I think Leiden knew exactly where, but, well.

“Oh, just some guy named Schmidt, that’ll be easy enough,” Raven says.

Charles thinks it's too simple a name for something so terrifying to a man like Erik, who has already suffered enough -- he had been in one of those _camps_ , and he had to have been a child when it'd happened.

"So, is he going to try to kill you when he sees you again?" Raven asks, while she and Charles sort the room out for the night.

"I don't -- know," Charles says. He scrubs his good hand through his hair. "He let me go."

"Why do you think that is?"

Just a patient, honest question. Charles shrugs.

"I -- think it's because I'm a mutant, too," he says, looking at his hand. "I tried to shut him down. I could -- I could have taken him over, Raven, but I just didn't want to."

"Oh, so you were going to let him kill you?" Raven's voice grows an edge. She bristles, physically, emotionally. "Charles. Even if he's a mutant like us, that's not a reason to just throw your life away --"

"I'm sorry," Charles says. Then he laughs, sad. "I'm glad you're mad, and not teasing me about me about being helpless to his wild charms.”

"I can tease you _later_ ," Raven mutters, slinging an arm around him and kisses his temple. "I know when it counts, Charles, you're not a total idiot." Her voice softens. "You're not an idiot at all. Just reckless."

"Raven, darling," Charles says, and takes her hand with his good one. "I'm sorry I did what I did. I know it was alarming; I knew you were going to come for me, but I -- had to try and stop you from interrupting us, I -- didn't want to frighten him.”

Raven's arm briefly flexed in a mock chokehold. "Yeah, and you were willing to get knocked around for it, dummy. Look. Let’s rest. We have a plane to catch tomorrow, apparently.”

Charles smiles at Raven, putting his forehead to her cheek. "And a father to convince to loosen a purse string or two," he says, “but that’s the easiest thing we’re about to do.”

-xxx-

_A JOURNAL ENTRY, LINED COMPOSITION PAPER, BLACK INK_

_29/6_ (HESITATION IN WRITING) _or 30/6/51? past midnight?_

_What to say? There has been a great upset in my estate, that of a man. I will call him Ferro. I chanced upon meeting him at an open garden dinner tonight. And then chanced upon far more than I could have expected._

_You see, tonight, I met one of Us. As I am, as Corva is. Yet this Ferro was not obviously so and I did not know at first. I attempted to ply my clever tricks on him to see if I could find my way into a good tumble, a small gamble that fell through. I thought him to be interested in the fortune of our host_ (HESITATION) _or one of the other landed gentlemen in the room and thus, not with a sop like me who appeared not have access to his fortune in full._

 _Yet I happened to Reach to him whilst we were attempting to find better wine, and woe that I did, because I haven’t seen that kind of brutal sight in_ (HESITATION) _in over ten years. A man flayed open like a creature on a dissection table! This handsome Ferro was indeed thinking of murdering a man that night, and if my mind was correct, occasionally it is not, and he had indeed done it before._

_I excused myself hastily and then knew that I had quite a decision to make. To try to attempt to save a man, or let it lie and let him possibly die by the hands of a stranger. Well, I could not abide not attempting the thing. I spoke to Corva, who was as always game for my foolishness and we regrouped to follow Ferro that evening._

_For all my complaining of terrible shoes and bad wine I am a decent sneakthief of the finest order, well perhaps not. We snuck into the_ (HESITATION) _chateau nearby as I’d figured out his preference for his “gentleman of the evening”. What I would not give to have gotten there sooner, but perhaps things would’ve shaken out the same way regardless. Ferro had decided that outcome was etched in stone._

_I snuck through with Corva at watch and went to the basement of the place, the play already underway and the theater doors closed. I came in undetected and found the frightening scene. Ferro pacing, intent on the squealing pig in bed. I thought to stop him then but something struck me as peculiar even against this bloodthirsty sight. Ferro’s knife was floating in his hand. Floating! Manipulated by some force within him._

_A Mutant!_

_It became apparent than Ferro’s prey_ (HESITATION) _was only worth attempting to save to give said prey a long life rotting in prison. Like a fool I withstood watching the torture until the moment before death and made myself known. That did not last very long and had I not known such fear in_ (HESITATION) _many years I would have given in to hysterics when Ferro used his power on me._

_First, my watch, which I realize now I have left, damn it all. But I got it off. That did not matter. He found out of my gold injury! My stainless steel ring!_

_To be so close to him then, it was terrifying and not at all the excitement I had wanted with him early in the evening. I thought perhaps he’d kill me, if I did not act and control him, but I truly dind’t wish to. He was like me and Corva, with such great power. He let me go though I knew if I had pushed him further, he would have collapsed with over-extension. Yes he let me live and here I am with my war wounds and my great schemes and Dear Corva. We will follow Ferro to where he goes, for I know where he heads. Perhaps I can then convince the poor man I mean no harm. I can only imagine his isolation, thinking he is the only other in the world._

-xxx-

"I'm certain you two will be up to no good," Dr. Marko had said before they'd taken off for Paris the next day, arms folded in mock-sternness. "Just make sure not to sully the great family name of _Xavier._ ”

"Yes, Father," Charles and Raven had said, bowing their heads with a mock show of piety. Dr. Marko had winked and they boarded their plane in a fit of private laughter.

It's more than one plane to catch, of course: getting to Argentina is a variety of hops, skips, and jumps, with a few days' stop in New York to stock up on essentials. For Raven, this had meant scoping out the latest fashions to replicate, and for Charles to find all the proper sunblock possible to fit in a carry-on. Though the seasons south of the Equator are flipped, it is still going to be sunny. There will be time spent on boats and hiking, and god knows what else they'll get up to when they aren't playing affluent students on vacation. Charles's skin is milk-white and burned readily, and the last thing he needs while chasing a handsome Nazi-murdering mutant is severe sun-sickness.

"I've got some clothes picked out for you," Raven says, patting a few of her brown paper totebags. "I don't need you looking rough while we're in polite company."

"My _greatest_ sin," Charles laments, putting his sunblock in Raven's all-but-empty suitcase, "is that I can't match your style."

"You've got way more sins than that," Raven says, chucking a smaller bag at him. "I got two of your menthol inhalers just in case your allergies act up."

"God, why am I so bloody precious?" Charles mutters, opening up the bag to pull one out, and then stares at the actual contents of the bag. "Raven!"

"What?" Raven smirks. "You might thank me later."

It’s two tins of condoms and a tin of petroleum jelly.

"Who," Charles asks, voice pitching high, "sold this to you without so much as _blinking?_ "

"A young fop off the street looking to get lucky," Raven replies, slipping into the male guise she'd used, voice dropping, "and I even got a wink from the pharmacist for my trouble."

"This is not why I'm going after him, Raven," Charles says, crumpling the bag at its neck.

Raven shifts back to her own human form. "But it could be a great unintended result.”

 _He doesn't like men_ , Charles nearly says aloud, but he doesn't know for sure. Erik doesn't seem the sort to have time for frivolities, unless it's getting him where he wants. Charles wonders how far Erik had gone with the Colonel, before trussing him up, and a shiver of revulsion rolls over him.

"Not everyone's like you, Raven," Charles mutters at last, rubbing his forehead. "Liking both, and all. Or even being open-minded to it."

"I don't know," Raven says, not deterred. "Something tells me you can change his mind."

"Oh, fine, I'll pack them," Charles says, as if it's some great slight he’s suffering.

There are many red-eye flights in and out of bustling airports; Charles is so busy keeping his mental walls up among the crowds that he loses track of time, letting Raven tug them around. It's only on the flight from Bogota to Buenos Aires that he truly gets a sense of where he is, waking up pillowed on Raven's shoulder to see the city coming into view upon their descent.

Erik must already be here, searching for clues on the elusive Schmidt. Has he killed again? Charles recalls that pained face, the fury of Erik's internal betrayal, at letting Charles live. He thinks of those pale eyes on him and feels his heart clench, and welcomes the jarring final turbulence of their landing.

"Do you know exactly where he's going to be?" Raven asks, while they make their way to the airport curb, Charles gamely bearing most of their luggage to keep up appearances.

"He’ll probably station himself a good distance from Villa Gesell," Charles says. "It's not clear where, but I'm sure it's not going to be in the normal tourist areas in the city.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do, too,” Raven declares.

They rest in Buenos Aires for the night without many words exchanged between them. Exhaustion is ever their third traveling companion, and conversing with the pillow and comforter is easier than making complete sentences. Raven wakes early the next day to send a telegram to their father about their safe arrival and Charles makes his way to rent a car. It ends up being a convertible -- he'd rather not something _so_ ostentatious, but Raven's rare, indulgent wishes were his command -- and they spend lunch in a picnic area beside a local market, enjoying the Argentinian take on pizza and some frosty ginger soda in place of beer.

"You seem more relaxed," Raven says. "Is it easier here?"

"Easier -- oh, yes," Charles says. He coughs as he tries another sip of the soda -- it's delicious, but strong. He can feel the flush on his face. "The further we go from the city, the more spaced out people are. I'll be able to reach out and find him easily.”

"You're going to try and do a sweep to find him?" Raven asks, pushing up her high-fashion sunglasses to stare at him. "Charles, you _know_ how it can -- "

She doesn't get far into her plea before she concedes on her own, dropping her glasses on her nose again. He reaches out to grab her hand, wincing slightly as he flexes his recently injured knuckle.

"I will be there with you," he says, "and I will be very, very careful, I promise. I know who I'm looking for. I’ve felt his mind before, and he’s a mutant, besides. It should make it easier."

Raven nods, and goes back to her soda, brow furrowed. She has reason to be concerned. Charles does foolish things, of course, but stretching his power is dangerous. She's seen first hand how it can affect him, and how hard it is to pull him back in.

This is different, Charles thinks to himself, I've gotten so much better since the last time I tried.

The tense silence continues into their car ride, not quite as comfortable as it usually would be between them. They have the top down; Raven's tied down her wide-brimmed hat to keep it settled. Charles smells strongly of Coppertone and zinc paste, and he's fairly sure he's got a burn line around his sunglasses from the exposure. They take from the main road to those less well-paved, and they find their first stop: a well-reviewed bed and breakfast a good twenty kilometers away from Villa Gesell’s dunes and recently planted forests.

"This place boasts fresh goat milk cheese, local coffees," Raven says, flipping through the brochure, "and homemade breads."

"And late dinner, I hope," Charles says. Raven laughs and pats his cheek, then goes inside to confirm their reservations. Charles takes his time patting at his face for possible burns, finding the flesh above his eyebrows rather tender. The inn is not so far off the beaten path that there isn't the sense of the city nearby, but it's certainly at the cusp of the rural landscape and the concrete contrast of modern developments. There's a little Westchester in every place like this Charles visits, both filling him with great homesickness and fondness at the same time.

Raven returns from the main house with instructions and the houseboy. She’s taken the lead with her excellent American-side Spanish, which Charles can only follow with his senses; the emotional static of language, as he likes to think of it. Their car is carefully driven into a barn converted into a makeshift garage, Charles laden with their luggage like a beast-of-burden, and they are lead to a cabin with instructions on when meals were served in the main house and the timetable of local open trucks took visitors to some lakeside attractions.

Charles wonders if Erik is staying in such a place as this, because it would be what the "refined" person would do, cawing about the rustic charm of the place, the simplicity of these "foreign" areas, which Charles finds tiresome and offensive. But he and Charles and Raven must play at their privilege with as much self-reflection as possible. They have been entrenched with the customs of the wealthy since they were children, no matter how distasteful they find the high-minded attitudes of their peers.

Erik would have had to have learned all that, somehow, after the war. After the camps. And yet, he had almost seemed better adjusted to it all than Charles was, at Leiden's party.

 _Well, I don't have to be adjusted. I was born in this world of gold and silver spoons. He's had to earn it, when half the people in "polite company" aren't even_ nearly _so refined and noble --_

_Noble, now? Are you sure you're not making this man up in your head, Charles?_

Charles shakes his head free of his own conflicting voices. There is too much to do right now than second-guess a stranger's moral integrity. He and Raven eat dinner, plan their morning, then Raven is off to the shower, leaving Charles on the porch.

It's chilly, the area truly on the cusp of winter. Charles tugs one of the hand-woven throws around his shoulders, closes his eyes. And then, knowing that he cannot do it for long, knowing that Raven will scold him if she finds out he's gone ahead of her like this -- he Reaches to find who he’s looking for.

There is a difference between a mutant's mind and a human's mind. It is almost an intangible thing. Charles could no more explain it than his powers as a whole. There is such a majority of humans that the slightest difference in the wavelength means all the difference -- it is easier to pick out something shining and red from a sea of matte white glass. There are a few such touchstones within Reach of the cabin, faint echoes of innate powers not yet blossomed, a tangible alternating current.

At the furthest reach of Charles's immediate power is an anomaly. It is something that is at times red, and then nothing at all. It flickers, like an old ember. He thinks perhaps it is the shifting of the psychic force around them all, too close to the comfortable border of Charles's natural limits to remain in his mental sight.

It keeps blinking with regularly, like staggered breathing. It is suddenly an imperative to discover if this is a fluke in Charles's power causing the flicker, or it’s something else. Someone else.

He goes back into his body briefly, finding Raven, bright and shining and still very much in the middle of her well-earned shower. No, there's no time for second-guessing. He must make a decision. He's driven to it. He takes the steps down the porch with knocking knees, the effort of keeping the Reach open to his senses making physical movement difficult. He wanders through the grasses in with his shawl and sleeping gown and cotton sleep trousers, barefoot. The cold seeps through his feet, though he hardly notices it in this state. He keeps going until he's a good half-kilometer away from the cabin. He hopes it’s enough.

Ready as he’ll ever be for this kind of work, Charles sits down in the grasses and relaxes his physical body for his mind to truly take over.

The red light continues to flicker, a great contrast to the glowing cluster of white human souls, in their pale halos of thought and spirit. Charles mentally itches to extend the Reach to Touch the red light, to see if it's in danger, but it might be too much to bear and he needs Raven, but -- it could be --

_t u_

ch

**do n't l e a ve m**

_t m ir_

**e yo u c**

ar

_L e_

le

**an't le**

_id_

s?

**ave me he re i d**

cha

_ma_

**on't wa**

rl

**nt t**

_m a_

**o di e**

es!

A wave of ache and fever rushes over Charles. He shoves himself back into his body and vomits on the ground, realizing too late how much he's been sweating.

 _Charles!_ Raven's voice in his mind, grabbing on their bond like a tug rope. _For fuck's sake, you_ said _you wouldn't!_

 _I'm sorry!_ he cries back, staggering up. If they were screaming, it would wake everyone -- it's just as well she's able to grasp hold of their link even if he's preoccupied. _I'm sorry, darling, but -- I found him. I found him._

_You --_

_And we have to go to him._

_Tonight?_

Charles, despite his body's protest, runs barefoot back to the inn, where his sister stands vigil at the porch, her true sight reflecting yellow-orange against the moonlight.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, too overcome to speak out loud, tears in his eyes. _Tonight. Or he'll die, Raven. He's dying._


	4. Part One - Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles stands. Then, stiff and stilted, so does Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your love, everyone! Updates will resume week of 8/20/18. :) I'll be available on my Tumblr, where I do Cherik art/writing requests (though I've got a backlog for now). You can visit me [here!](http://tselina.tumblr.com/).
> 
> You'll be getting glimpses of other Marvel characters starting now, though it's going to be mostly X-Men all the way for some time. ;)
> 
>  **Additional Warnings** : Medical Gore.

 

> _"Don't you know you've kept him waiting?"_

-xxx-

Even with Raven’s steadying presence, there are physical consequences to Charles’s Reach. It’s difficult to get a hold on the exact direction they need to aim for. Charles spends a good ten minutes being ill after his first attempt. He has to go to the bathroom and rinse off the sick before they can get on the road.

Raven's finished unpacking Charles's hiking gear. Charles has never felt her so antsy.

"Did you get anything useful?" she asks.

 _Yes_ , he thinks at her, not trusting his voice. _East of here. Near one of the small creeks, and the last proper town we passed by. I could tell by the human clusters._

 _Like barnacles_. Raven snaps out a towel and waits outside the tub for Charles. "All right, dry off. I won't lecture you now, but after we get this guy back here, I'm going to chew your ear off."

 _Not literally, I hope_ , Charles thinks meekly as he climbs out of the tub. _My ears are some of my best features._

She throws the towel on him. "I'm going to look at our road map."

Charles dries off, making sure he gets his legs and arms as dry as possible to pull on his dark bodysuit. He finds Raven in the kitchen, bowed over their map with a pencil in hand, making a few circles here and there.

"Here's the last town next to the road," she says, circling an area. "There were some signs for a vineyard and a tavern, and I think it's also far enough from the dunes to be farmland."

Charles closes his eyes to visualize what he'd seen, using his finger to trace the map blindly.

"I reached my limit -- here," he says, voice creaking, "and when I pushed, there were groups of humans, families all around him. He's either been captured or he's under someone's porch in a sorry state."

Raven lowers her eyes. "That's awful." Her voice tremors slightly. Sympathy, by way of experience.

Charles has never once asked Raven where she'd come from, how she'd found herself in the mansion's kitchen years ago. It's her business, after all. If she wants to tell him, she will, but the most important thing is that she's thriving now. He feels the moment shifting dangerously close to a confession.

“Raven—“ he begins. To stop her, he realizes, before she says too much, and regrets it later.

Raven looks at him, her eyes yellow, unfocused for a moment. Tears track down her human face, leaving blue in their wake like striations in marble, but she quickly brushes then away.

"I'm going to see if it's not too late to get us a horse," she says, voice steady again. "Makes sure you have one of the field kits."

They luck out. The stablehand is up late playing cards with one of the other guests. Charles, dressed too conspicuously for polite company, waits at the inn for Raven's return. She's on a sturdy-shouldered mare leading another, older and a little slim at the hips.

"The only two they had," she says. "I figure we'll need to ride double on my girl if we have company on the way back."

Charles gets up on the nag, patting her neck with thanks, trying to express his gratitude mentally.

"I'll lead the way," he says. "But not too far, keep an eye on me."

"You're damn right I will," Raven mutters.

Charles shuts his eyes and Reaches only after they leave the property, using subtle thigh movements to guide his mare. He trusts Raven will have a handle on his reins if he goes off the path, and once or twice he’s jerked from his trance as she does just that.

It's far easier with Raven's presence, a great scarlet sun in the darkening night to gravitate towards. When they are close enough to approach, he returns to his body in full. _All right, it's just up ahead._

 _Let me guess_ , Raven thinks, as they dismount near a copse of trees at the edge of a small valley. _You're going without me._

 _Not too far_ , he thinks back, nodding his head towards the houses below. A few lights are still on, glowing orange light over small gardens and animal pens. _He's somewhere down there. I need you to be ready with the horses._

 _If he's unconscious_ , Raven warns, _you won't be able to carry him._

 _I can get him far enough up for some help though, yeah?_ Charles smiles at her.

 _Ugh! Don't you make that cute face at me_ , _you're still in trouble_ , Raven thinks, nose curling. She gestures sharply, like they're having the conversation aloud and she needs the emphasis. _Go find your stray._

Charles slides down the hill, not tapping into his illusionary powers just yet to conserve his power. Every so often he stops to Sense the people around him, to find the red soul, which, even so close, is losing its spark. _I'm not too late_ , Charles tries to convince himself as he searches, _I'm not too late--_

Erik Lehnsherr is found in goat pen, his long body stretched out behind an extra feed bin. There are fresh goat tracks around him. A small part of his coat sleeve has been chewed off. Somehow, he hasn’t been discovered by the owners; it's possible this place isn't checked often unless needed. Erik’s hair is plastered to his thin face with mud, and he is very still.

Charles feels his knees shake before he approaches. It isn't exhaustion. It's the worst kind of anticipation: _dread_. He kneels beside Erik and touches the man's forehead, which is clammy with sweat.

 _Erik_ , he thinks, very carefully, into the man’s mind. Nothing.

"Erik," he says, just as carefully. "We're here to take you back."

There's a brief stirring. Charles's heartbeat skips.

"Lady?" Erik asks, after a long moment. He doesn't open his eyes, but he lifts his head.

"Yes," Charles says, trying to glimpse who it is Erik's thinking of. A woman, her voice nothing like Charles's, but the accent is similar, refined but not too posh. A brief snippet of memory -- _darling Boy you Are looking So Tired today Let me See you, I'm So sorry He seems To Be pushing You so Hard_ \-- a beautiful raven-haired woman with bright glass-green eyes, dressed in matching greens and blacks with heavy golden jewelry.

He's not Raven, with her transformative powers, but he can at least lighten his voice. "Yes, darling boy," he mimics. "Can you stand? I need your help.”

That's not a very productive question: Erik is clearly in not shape to even be conscious. He might bolster if he thinks someone needs him, though. Sure enough, Erik is struggles to obey, and the brightness begins to return to his spirit.

"I'm -- I’m injured.” Said as if he isn’t quite sure, but he's sorry all the same.

"No, it's all right, dear," Charles says. Then takes a very deep breath. "We can manage."

He dives into Erik's mind, grasping quickly at his motor functions, past snatches of memories, of surface thoughts, and begins to tug at the strings. _  
_

Charles stands. Then, stiff and stilted, so does Erik.

True unconsciousness occurs, at times, with open eyes. There's an emptiness to it that always unsettles Charles. There is still the glassiness of life in Erik’s gaze, but no sign of his working mind. Erik awake could not have pushed past the pain. So much is possible when one doesn't feel what's happening.

Charles goes slowly, doing his best to keep them in a line so he can watch for dips in their path. He reaches the bank of the hill, staring up at it, feeling his strength draining fast. He eases both himself and Erik down to their knees, then Erik to lie forward awkwardly with his head on the ground before releasing him.

 _Raven_ , Charles thinks, _we're at the base of the hill. I need your help. He's in bad shape._

_Do you know what's wrong?_

_Not yet. I had to force him to walk. If he's wounded, he's not bleeding. For now, at least..._

_For now_ , Raven stresses. _Can you Reach up to the horses? I don't want them to bolt when I Change._

 _Of course_ , Charles says, and scrounges enough power to cast a blanket of calm over their animal minds, familiar sensations of warm stables and hay. There's a brief rustle in the grass and rocks, and Raven, blue and scarlet-haired, has come to their rescue. She lifts Erik easily, though his height forces her into a fireman's carry. They make it up the hill with almost the same pace, Charles still trying to placate the horses.

So far, they've been relying on the quarter moon, Charles's psychic gaze and Raven's night vision to guide them, but they will need better light to survey Erik’s injuries.

"Get the horses," Raven says, "there's the lantern in the bay's saddle."

Erik is a pitiful sight beneath the small orange candle. His once white shirt is stained with mud and gored on one side, a kind of wound that bled seriously before it had been staunched. The blood on the shirt is rusty, hours old.

 _Hold him down,_ Charles thinks, and Raven moves to put Erik's head in her lap, clamping down on his shoulders.

Charles pours a bit of the canteen water on the caked blood, and Erik writhes. He’s strong enough that Raven, now human-formed, must shift her arms to contain him. Charles dumps a little more water and picks carefully at shirt once he’s satisfied it isn’t stuck to the scab. He can't fix Erik up yet, but he wants to understand the wound's severity, if it will bleed again if they sling him the wrong way across the horse.  When it's revealed that unsettling the dried muck doesn't have him gushing blood, Charles rolls the shirt up Erik’s torso to see the damage.

It looks like a bullet's lodged in his side, right at the last stationary rib. It's leaking blood lazily now, and there's the red angry beginnings of infection around the entry wound. If it had gone further towards his spine, it would've perforated something, and he'd have been dead hours ago. It's only a small consolation.

"Get me the travel kit and the gin," Charles whispers. “We're going to need to patch him up before we put him on the nag."

"Got it," Raven says.

It's a small hotel mini-bar bottle of gin, but it works in a pinch. Raven braces Erik’s shoulders again before Charles tips half the bottle over the wound. Erik doesn’t thrash much this time, which is discouraging, as if he's finally tapped of strength. Charles cleans the wound and loosely tapes down some gauze while Raven fetches the horses.

The man breathes shallowly through parched lips. Charles dumps water on some extra gauze, raising it to Erik's mouth, gently squeezing water past his lips. Erik responds readily to it, throat bobbing. Heartened, Charles lifts Erik's head, resting him on one knee. He tips the canteen back for small sips. Pale eyes flutter open briefly, unseeing, but there's now a steady hum to Erik's soul, no longer in danger of snuffing out.

The horses are unsettled at Erik's presence, the man smelling of injury, blood, and filth, but they manage once they notice their riders are calm.

"How are we going to explain this to our hosts?" Raven asks, watching Erik's heavy limbs sway on either side of the nag.

"He's a drunk foreigner we met on our ride out," Charles replies, buttoning up a shirt over his bodysuit to make him look less conspicuous. "I'm sure they've seen much worse."

Putting Erik up in the inn proves easier than Charles and Raven could have ever hoped. The stablehand surprises them as they reach their cabin, exclaiming with great relief: "You found him!"

It comes to light that Erik's the one renting out the other half of the cabin they're staying in. Apparently, he's been missing for two nights, and the hosts will be relieved to have him back safe. It's such a stroke of luck that Charles thinks he's daydreamed the entire thing while they help Erik off the nag and into the cabin.

The stablehand gets a copy of Erik’s room key. Charles provides him a hefty tip, thanking him for his discretion. Raven gentles him onto his bed while Charles gets the lights.

Now it's easier to see the wound. While not fresh, it hasn't been left untreated for long. It must've happened earlier in the day, and somewhere with plenty of sand -- the dunes? — because there's a noticeable collection of the stuff beneath the caked mud on his trousers and shoes. How Erik had trekked as far as he did in such condition is a mystery, but there is no discounting his stubborn will to live.

"Do you think he'll be okay if I take a rest?" Charles says, sitting back after the inspection.  He wipes at his face, realizing how bone-deep tired he is. "I don't want a doctor looking at him, but I don't trust myself to do anything tonight."

Raven's form shifts blue as she leans towards Erik's wound, sniffing.

"It's not bad yet," she declares, moving to Charles’s side to nudge him off the chair and out the door. "I'll keep dumping liquor on it. You, rinse off and sleep a while. I'll let you know if things change.”

"Thank you," Charles says, his throat working around an apology. "Raven. I, I'm --"

Raven holds her hand up to stop him.

"I know I joke about you depending on me all the time," Raven says, low, "and that I scold you for stupid things. But Charles, if you had passed out -- gotten lost in your mind -- I'd have no idea where to start with saving ypu. It's not just me chasing after you doing silly schoolboy things and slapping you on the wrist. That's not what we are."

Charles lowers his head. "I -- I, yes."

"The thing is --" Raven grabs his wrists. "I need you too. I _depend_ on you. Not just your powers. But we're a team, Charles. If you go off doing things you said you weren't going to do -- if I can't --" Here she stops, gnawing on her lip, unable to voice her deepest fears.

"I trust you," she starts again. "Just -- I can't hold up my part of the bargain if you work ahead of me, Charles. Please. Next time, just tell me if you want a head start. I won't be happy, but at least I'll know."

Charles grasps her hands to his chest, pressing his lips to her knuckles, briefly overcome with regret. Desperate words race through his mind, unspoken: _I'm so sorry, please don't leave me, I'll do better, I swear I will._

But Raven is not his mother, who Charles has never been able to please, who once abandoned him to the worst of the world. Raven will never do that, not to Charles, not even if he slips up a hundred times as he had tonight. It is the crux of their bond: _no matter who you become, no matter what you do, it's you and I against the world.  
_

Raven knows all his signs, that he’s exhausted, that he’s frightened, and so she does what he needs the most in the moment. She cups Charles's face with both her hands.

"Hey," she says. "What do you feel?"

A laugh bubbles up from his throat, though his eyes ache with coming tears. He holds her hands against his cheeks.

"How much you love me."

"And?"

"How fond," he says, stumbles over his clenching throat, "how fond you are of me."

Raven tilts her head, gold eyes squinting. She draws one hand up to touch his sweat-sticky hair. "And?"

He reaches for those deeper feelings. A memory of _the two of them in the one of flower terrace gardens that ring around the mansion, huddled beneath a tarp-tent that they'd fashioned together. They are hid away from a grumpy groundskeeper who calls for them, angry at some now long forgotten mischief. Charles has his hand to his temple, keeping their position secret, and Raven muffles her laughter in his shoulder, her arms slung around his neck._

 _"I'm so glad you found me," she says_ , and all the uncertainty that’s been building up like concrete and plaster around Charles's heart cracks and crumbles.

He weeps. He weeps because he's upset Raven, because it frightens him to disturb the people he wants to love him, to have faith in him. He weeps because he has put so much on the line for a strange man -- a man that has not yet _proven_ himself as good or as noble as Charles _wants_ him to be. He weeps because he's terrified of being isolated from the other mutants in the world, too afraid to approach others, though he now knows they're there. He thinks he will never be good enough to gain their trust, believe his sincerity. _He doesn't want to be alone._

"It’s okay, Charles, baby, it’s okay," Raven says. She has him in her arms, his chin to her shoulder, petting his hair easily. "Come on. Let's get you one of your menthol inhalers so you can breathe through all that snot. Then a rinse, and right to bed.”

"Yes mum," Charles says, cracking a helpless little smile. "I'll listen to you, this time."

Raven cuffs his hair and pushes away from him gently. "You'd better, or else.”

-xxx-

Charles wakes with the sun in his eyes, his joints stiff from horse riding and his head throbbing from tapping out his power. He sits up in his cabin bed and stares at his aching, swollen hands, sees the evidence of rusty blood and mud beneath his fingernails, and remembers:

_Erik._

He stands and stumbles out of the room as if he's gone a few hours at a bacchanalia. The headache grows as if he’s been three sheets to the wind on top of that. The call of nature is strong and must be obeyed before he can throw himself into assisting his patient. Charles leans against the walls towards the toilet, relieves himself, and pumps out water to cleans his nails. He stares blearily at himself in the mirror: he's looks an absolute fright, red-eyed and almost gaunt. Two hasty baths yesterday had not included his normal grooming routines. His ginger whiskers are growing in and his hair is everywhere, curls and cowlicks a thornbush. Charles knows there’s not much he can do but pray there's enough pomade in there slick it down with his water and fingers.

He remembers that he should actually clothe himself at some point. Charles picks through his shirts and trousers for something warm enough for the winter outside, throws himself together and hurries down the shared hallway between their side of the cabin and Erik’s. He's stopped before he goes further than the door.

 _Charles_ , Raven thinks, _there you are! Glad you're awake. I'm in the main house, but I brought some sweet buns and a tin of tea. Did you bring the powdered milk?_

 _Yes_ , he thinks, and that starts the headache again. _Oh, I can't talk long, my head hurts. Just tell me what I need to do._

 _Eat, get some tea in you, take an aspirin, then check on Sleeping Beauty. He's slept through two dressing changes, and I managed to get some water in him._ Raven recounts. T _he wound doesn't look any better but it's not worse. I'll be gone most of the morning -- I'm doing some reconnaissance nearby. I’ll let you know if I need you._

He knows better than to protest her instructions, so he heads to the kitchen immediately. It’s half modern and half vintage: the counters are smooth and chrome-trimmed, and the stove is possibly as old as his grandfather, a vent shaft added above it, complete with heat-curled wallpaper. He sets about preparing a tray of the sweet bread, preparing a kettle for tea.

He wants to see Erik. To wake him, to take care of his wound -- to prove Erik can trust him with his life. Boyish infatuation and trepidation speeds the beat of his heart. _No, make the damn breakfast tray and tea. You're nearly nineteen years old, not a swooning schoolgirl. It's not like he's going anywhere._

With a kettle full of hot water (waiting for it to boil had been an absolute test of resolve and faith, but had bought him time for a cigarette) and delightful morning tea spread with bread and some fresh cheese, along with their tin of powdered milk and some aspirin, Charles finally enters Erik’s room.

Erik is propped up in bed, still asleep. One arm is folded over his bare chest. His wound is loosely dressed to let it breathe. The sun shines in from the bay window, its curtains pulled open to let the heat of the sun warm the room. Each ray highlights his soft muscles beneath pale skin.

If Charles knew he'd be tasked with the meticulous care of a living, breathing Michelangelo statue this morning, he might have stayed in bed.

 _Steep the damn tea!_ Charles berates himself. There’s a table opposite the bed, and he nearly drops the tray in haste to begin. He fills the teapot first, then takes the rest of the boiled water to the empty ceramic bowl Raven had set up near her vigil the night past. _She thinks of everything_ , Charles muses fondly, and absentmindedly tries to Reach to her, if she’s sitll nearby. But, much like his swollen hands and twinging limbs, his mind flinches at the attempt. With a wince, Charles makes do with his chores around the room.

Some of Erik's luggage is locked up like the crown jewels, in ways that only his metal-manipulation could open without some sort of power tool. Others are easily popped open, displaying his civilian things: passport, tickets, anything he'd need to show that he was just an average citizen enjoying a fanciful vacation in South America. Charles huffs in frustration when he doesn't find what he’s _really_ looking for: Erik's got to have a medical kit on him somewhere, outfitted for his needs. Charles will need to get their own.

Raven’s luggage contains their full medical kit, as she doesn't have much use for the room aside for the accessories she's unable to replicate, purses, a coat or two, and a fair collection of stylish sunhats. Charles decides absentmindedly to stick one of the hats on his head while he rummages, a black-brimmed number with white flowers.

" _There_ we go," he whispers to himself, drawing out the flat off-white briefcase, hefting it in his hands before returning to Erik's room. There’s the kit they used on their ride last night, and then there’s this fine thing.

He sets up the kit on the desk, delicately clicking the combination together and surveying it with no small amount of pride. It's got everything needed to patch up wounds and stave off infections and illness. Charles plucks the penicillin bottle and checks the expiration date, then removes one of the sterilized needles, the smaller pair of tongs, a medium-sized scalpel, and a sliver of soap, laying them all out next to the wash basin on clean rags and gauze.

Next, he fishes out a notebook his Dr. Marko and Dr. Schimmer had put together for him years ago, when the men had caught Charles and Raven on one of their earlier adventures. It's a modified pocket address book for easy reference, and right away he tabs to 'X':

OBJECT X-TRACTION ON THE GO! in Marko's scrawling hand at the top, as well as a warning that if CHARLES IF YOU ARE GRAVELY INJURED---A REAL DOCTOR SHOULD PERFORM SUCH THINGS!! There's a notation on the kinds of tools needed (SHARP! SHARP! SHARP BLADES... DULL AND RUSTY RIGHT OUT) the kinds of astringents and clear liquor needed (DRINK SOME FOR GOOD HEALTH--BUT NOT ISOPROPYL!!!), what to use as (TEMPORARY--ONLY) stitching and suturing (GO TO A DOCTOR TO FIX THIS--) and a reminder in Dr. Schimmer's more practical hand to then look at _WOUND CARE &DRESSINGS PAGES B-C._

The bullet _has_ to come out, and Charles isn't sure he wants to do that with Erik waking up in the middle of it. Raven isn’t here to hold him down, and Erik bucking around could only be a recipe for trouble. But to wake him up, if he so clearly needs rest…

Charles pushes a hand through his tacky hair, feeling the curls having come out of the day-old pomade’s hold. He downs his over-steeped tea straight up like a whiskey shot, no milk powder or sugar, the bitter scald waking his muddled senses.

He gathers his wits and his tools. He washes his hands in the basin, and surveys his nails to make sure they're still clean. He lights a candle and turns the tongs and scalpel over the flame to sterilize them, sets them on folded gauze beside the bowl. Now, he faces his patient.

Up close, Erik is still beautiful, but fragile. Charles can see the silver-pink of many scars, some of them severe and poorly healed. The numbers on his inner arm. A circular burn near one shoulder, the size of a coin, a messy brand. He can’t be much older than Charles, his youth obvious on his face at rest, the severe angles of his features softened in sleep, brows lifted and mouth slightly slack.

Charles fights the urge to smooth Erik's brow because then he'd have to clean his hands all over again. _No, this needs to happen now._

He lifts the gauze and makes a face at the wound. It’s shiny with blood plasma at the corners. The nose of the bullet protrudes from the skin like a shining blemish. Charles gently kneads his hands around it, making Erik react a little, rustling slightly in his rest. Charles tries to calm him with his powers, and meets a wall of ache for that trouble. He turns Erik over as much as he dares to check the underside for bruising, for the entry wound. There is none.

Charles leans back, blinking with slow confusion. This can’t be right. He lowers Erik's body down again and stares at the bullet, making sure he’s looking at it properly. It’s clearly dented from striking Erik’s ribs. But it's still the _head_ of the bullet, not the base. Which, if this was the _exit_ wound, would make sense. This is the only place on his body that is damaged, though, save perhaps poor Erik's dignity of being hauled around like so much luggage.

Could it have moved when Charles had puppeted Erik near the goat pen? Charles take tongs to nudge around. Beneath the angry skin, he sees the bullet's lodged lengthwise. On top of that, he can tell it's slightly flattened, dented. He recognizes now the ugly redness isn't just from the impending infection, but made by some kind of hot metal or flame on the flesh.

Charles's eyes widen with final realization. He’d figured that Erik could have at least slowed the bullet down after hearing a gun go off, but this is _beyond_ that. The bullet is facing out because Erik had _turned it around_ as soon as it'd entered. And _then_ he'd found strength to flatten the thing, with most of it still under his skin, and crudely cauterize it. This had been deliberate.

The wound is its own remedy.

" _Fucksake_ ," Charles groans. He's not above doing a bit of crude surgery, he's got the steady hand for it, but he's not sure if he can manage this strange aberration without Erik being awake. Otherwise, he’s most likely to do more harm than good. If he hadn’t been so frustrated, he’d be impressed.

"Suppose I'll just clean you off again, then," Charles mutters, as if Erik is actively thwarting him. The injured man barely budges as the wound is patted, doused, dried, and loosely bandaged again, but he does make a face when Charles gives him the injection of penicillin right in his thigh.

He pauses before cleaning up the tools, the grey water. Wiping his hand down, he reaches out to brush his knuckles against Erik's brow as he's wanted to all morning.

"Just wait till Raven hears about all this," Charles murmurs, smiling despite himself. “You’re even more trouble than _me_.”


	5. Part One - Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a terrible thing, to see a noble man in this state, to know his dignity is perhaps all he has of value in his world, and to know that true vulnerability is in showing weakness, rather than the weakness itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tidbit about scientists needing to know German: so much of the literature in the early century was in that language! My grandfather still has most of his textbooks from the time.  
>  **Additional Warnings** : Medical Gore Ahoy!

> _"You must wake up!"_

-xxx-

Charles bundles up for his sojourn to the main house to pick up lunch for himself and their recently recovered third guest. The family gently treats him like an oddity at first, which he wonders if it’s his poor American-side Spanish, until he realizes that the hat he’d grabbed to shield from the sun is _Raven’s_ , and not his own. It’s quite an icebreaker, and laughing at his own expense is good medicine, lightening the weight on his chest. He’s able to convey that Erik is sleeping off his hangover and that he and his sister aren’t going to let him live it down. Which isn’t _entirely_ a lie.

With a tip of his fancy borrowed hat, Charles takes the meal back to the cabin. He sits on the floor of the kitchen to fill his stomach, though he’s so distracted he barely tastes the sweet rolls. He drinks cold tea that's oversteeped, but it’ll accomplish what it needs to.

He wants to give Erik a little more time to rest, but he feels that every moment he spends is another moment closer to Erik falling into an illness he can’t hope to recover from. When noon strikes the clock in the kitchen, Charles resolves to act.

Charles sets two kettles to boil on the stove: one for the surgery, one to cool for water. He hasn’t felt the ill effects of local water as most travelers do, but Erik’s stomach is most likely tender, all his body’s defences trying to ward off infection.

He heads to Erik's room and shucks off his coat, then opens the curtains. The sunlight melts away the early winter chill, when just a week ago Charles had been sweating at the muggy start of summer. The season change reminds Charles how large the world is, how daring it is to traverse -- that so many great and different peoples populate the world, speaking thousands of languages, coming closer together with the modern age -- and how he is very small, in the scheme of it all.

Yet Charles feels the enormity of his purpose in this moment. He may occupy a fraction of a second on the ancient clock that is the Earth's past and present, but he is one of a very uncommon breed. Right now, he is tasked with the care of a member of his own rare species.

Erik breathes deep and even in his sleep. He retains a sick pallor, though he seems a resilient sort that doesn't go down easily when he’s well. Considering what he’s been through, he has to be tough.

Charles, seated opposite him, stares at his hands, balling them into fists. _It's now or never. What will he think, when he sees me?_

He feels the answer will not be a pleasant one.

"Erik." Charles stands, leaning to grasp the shoulder opposite the wound. "Erik, wake up. You've got to wake up."

Erik's brows knit. It means his tired body is letting him sleep lighter. Charles shakes him harder.

"Erik, you've been injured. I need your help with the wound."

The physical touch is not stirring him, so Charles pulls out his secret weapon from his trouser pocket: his menthol nasal inhaler. He sniffs it a bit himself, flaring his nostrils as his sinuses open up painfully. Then he puts it under Erik's nose.

Erik jostles on his next breath, face crumpling at the scent. Charles waves the metal tube under Erik's nose one more time, then pockets the inhaler, and helps a groggy Erik to a better sitting position. There’s a bit of mind-to-mind tactile crossover, though it's mostly confusion, and Charles is still too psychically tender to read anything more.

"Don’t worry, Erik," Charles says. He pets Erik's cheek to get his attention. "Can you look at me?"

"Lady --?"

 _This_ again. Charles's lips purse. He goes with it, lightening his voice, trying to recall what "Lady" had sounded like in Erik's head.

"Yes, you've been shot," Charles says. "We need to take care of it as soon as possible --"

"Lady." Erik's pale eyes are open, though still bleary.

"Yes?"

"Lady what -- are you --" Erik squints his eyes shut heavily, leaning back. "Are you --"

"Am I what?"

Erik gestures to his own head, near his temple, still frowning out of confusion. Charles mimics the gesture, feeling something touch his knuckles.

And realizes he still has the flouncy black hat on.

"Oh shit," Charles says, snatching it. He startles Erik with the movement, who jostles backward as if Charles had made to strike him.

Erik’s eyes are wide, and his breathing grows shallow as he realizes that he is alone, injured, and with a strange man. "You're not --”

"No, I'm not any lady you know," Charles says, flushing. He's more embarrassed by the hat than ever being mistaken for a woman. _It's not even my style_ , he thinks bitterly, before tossing it away.

"Who," Erik says, with his nose curled and his voice slurring with vague displeasure, "the hell are you?"

"A friend," Charles says. He’s not sure if Erik has connected his scruffy, unshaven self with the dandy boy from Brussels. He runs a hand through the sticky briar patch that is his hair.

"Erik -- you're injured. Let's start with that. You're dehydrated and you still have a bullet in you, and we need to get it out."

Erik takes his time, his face reacting in degrees as he understands what Charles is saying.

"Do I -- know you?”

"Yes," Charles says, finding himself impatient. He reaches for the kettle to pour it in the basin. "When this is done, I’ll answer your questions, but we need to get started on the surgery.”

"Surgery --" Erik tries to sit up further, agitated, and makes a terrific noise of pain as he falls back.

"Don't do that!" Charles shouts. He turns to put the kettle down. Or tries to, because it’s beginning to tug away from his hand. Of course: it’s almost entirely metal.

"What the hell are you _doing_?" Charles exclaims, staring right at Erik, whose eyes are wavering in their sockets, his gaunt face immobile. The kettle finally yanks its way out of Charles's hands and Charles backs immediately towards the window to avoid being scalded.

“My brown suitcase,” Erik demands, still slurring. The kettle sets itself on the bedside table with a rattle.

Charles’s brow furrows. He decides to comply, edging around the bed, putting the locked luggage on the other bedside table. Erik has to but look at the locks to undo them, and the thing lifts open at the handle.

Erik plucks a white undershirt out from the stack of neatly folded clothing. The basin stand has metal hinges, and Charles winces as it scrapes across the floor. Erik drapes half the shirt in the bowl, then begins the shaky process of mentally lifting the kettle.

"If you're too tired, you might lose control --" Charles cautions, and Erik gives him such a frosty look that Charles clams up to watch.

The kettle tips, pouring haphazardly for a few moments. Erik’s quick to pluck the shirt out by two fingers to make sure it doesn’t soak up too much. The steam puts color back into Erik’s face. He wrings the shirt, wincing at the temperature of the water. Then he puts it right against the wound at his side, and all his menace leaves him, replaced with a red-faced snarl of pain.

Charles starts forward, both hands out. "Stop it, Erik, for fuck's sake!"

Erik, breathing like a lathered horse, stares at Charles, wild-eyed. And then that expression hardens. The new application of pain has sobered him complete. He recognizes Charles.

"It _is_ you," he hisses.

"Yes, me. Look," Charles keeps forward, palms up, "I'd be best if I do that --"

He gets a step from the bed, when is class ring begins to pinch and lift his arm at the finger.

Stupid. _Stupid!_ Charles has put it on his opposite hand, while the other heals. But he's still bloody _wearing_ it. Charles shouts in alarm, drawing his hand to his chest before Erik can take proper hold. Erik laughs -- in his state, it's more of a smug wheeze -- and the hold on Charles's ring releases.

"I thought you'd be a bit more cautious," Erik says, with a cold curl of a smile, "Little Lord Gold Allergy."

Charles squares his shoulders. "You seem to be feeling _much_ better.”

"By the minute." Erik keeps the smile on his face, as if having won some kind of internal victory, and begins to press at the reddened flesh around his odd metal "bandage”.

Charles rights himself. He takes a moment to pull his ring off, too, which is a bit of a process, considering how his finger’s already swollen.

"I suppose you’ll have no trouble walking out of here on your own?" Charles says. "Finish cleaning yourself, then toddle off to pass out in another goat pen, to die of sepsis?”

Erik's smile disappears.

It's a standoff, Charles realizes. He's had his share of them over the years, but not yet with someone of Erik’s intensity. The other man’s eyes are eerie and very pale in the light, pupils pinned like an eagle's. As if sizing a rabbit-like Charles up for a mid-day meal.

Charles knows he looks like a petulant schoolboy on the best of days, even unkempt as he is. But he’s nearly nineteen, and he’s seen his share of violence. If Erik thinks he’s truly threatening Charles, he's underestimating him. He’s not off his guard like he’d been in Brussels, being tugged around by his metal bits and bobs.

Erik twists around the shirt to press a clean section to his wound, body jerking with the pain. " _Scheisse._ "

Charles throws his hands in the air. "Oh, fuck's sake, let me help, you can't do this on your own."

"You don't know that --" Erik begins, teeth clenched. Then stops, abrupt. He looks at Charles, and then past him towards the main house, visible from the window. He looks at the table, the open medical kit, the hat on the floor, and turns his head away. Charles sees something taut within him give. The long bits of his lank hair fall past his brow into his eyes.

"Do you have anything to drink,” he asks, monotone, before tossing the bloody shirt on the ground.

"Yes," Charles says. He grabs the mug of lemon slices and sugar he’d prepared before waking Erik up.

Erik's hands are red from the scalding water, and they shake with exhaustion as he takes the drink. He doesn't look up at Charles. He sips it without further hesitation, a kind of trust. A truce has been struck, for now.

Charles spends the next few minutes fretting over the room, which he felt he’s done for weeks at this point: _Pick up your ring, put it in the medical kit. Which, you realize, is metal, with many sharp metal objects within it. Pity yourself, because your head hurts far too much to stop Erik should he want to take revenge for you meddling in his business. It’s your fault if Raven or the hosts find you trussed up, Erik on his merry way._

Charles has achieved all his goals on the trip: find Erik, which had been successful, and help him, which is in progress. Beyond that...

Erik's hesitant sips of his drink are very loud. He stops, and turns with audible discomfort to set it aside.

“I need…” He trails off, jaw setting.

“I could get you a pot,” Charles offers. He doesn’t have to read the man’s mind to know where he needs to head next.

Erik’s face says exactly what his feelings are on that notion.

Charles sighs. “Do you need help getting there?”

Erik shifts. “Yes. And I should -- bathe, before you start butchering me.”

“Are you sure that won’t do more harm?”

"It's not going to open up," Erik mutters. "It just hurts like hell."

"All right," Charles says, “let’s go.”

Erik stands, reaching out for Charles's shoulder. He smells very much of goat pen, mud, and old sweat, but Charles has smelled worse. They limp down the cabin hall to the bathroom. Erik stares down the commode and wiggles away from Charles, propping both hands on the wall above the toilet.

"I'd rather not with you watching," he says.

"Wasn't planning on it," Charles says, turning his attentions to the tub. "But you're not going to fit in this tub comfortably. I’m going to get something for you to sit on. Don't pass out."

Erik is still leaning against the wall above the commode, one arm propped and the other about his current business. He says, through his teeth, "I'll do my _very_ best."

The wooden stool Charles decides on is tall enough to have Erik sit and fit in the tub itself while not putting too much pressure on the wound area. He's stripped down to his briefs when Charles returns, leaning over the sink and staring at himself.

Erik looks up at Charles, unfocused, momentarily confused. The metal in the room shakes briefly, like a rattlesnake threatened.

"It's just me," Charles says. He sets the stool in the tub and turns on the spray.

Erik is quiet as he settles beneath the shower spray, save small noises of pain. Charles preps the washing sponges, the soap. When he approaches with them, Erik’s staring at the wall in front of him like he had done the window, the water cutting down the ridges of his rigid back, his tired muscles. His hair plasters flat and limp to his face and neck. Smaller wounds are obvious up close, recent bruises and scrapes.

Erik doesn't look at Charles. When he speaks, his voice is dull. "Are you going to help me lather up, then?"

It is a terrible thing, to see a noble man in this state, to know his dignity is perhaps all he has of value in his world, and to know that true vulnerability is in showing weakness, rather than the weakness itself.

Charles hands Erik the soap and sponge. "You’re not _that_ bad off. Don't stretch too much, though. You can wash your hair later,” he instructs, “and when you're done, call for me. We'll take care of your wound then."

Erik looks up at Charles. His bright eyes, red-rimmed with exhaustion, seek something he cannot find in Charles's face. His mouth firms tightly. There's nothing else that needs to be exchanged; Charles leaves Erik to his own devices, his wounds, and his battered dignity.

-xxx-

The phone rings as Charles returns to the kitchen, to check the temperature of the drinking water. He picks up after three insistent rings. "Si?"

"Hola," Raven says. "I'm calling from the main house. You busy?”

Charles breaks into a smile, his entire body practically folding in relief for a friendly voice. "You've no idea, oh, you've _no_ idea, darling."

"Yeah, I figured." Raven says. He can almost see her right now, leaning against the white wall of the kitchen where the phone is, finger rolled in the cord. She appears effortlessly calm, even when she is tense or worried. This Charles knows without the need of his powers and is grateful for.

"He almost gave me some trouble when he woke,” Charles says.

"You didn't lose any limbs, right?"

"My finger, almost," Charles says.

"Dummy," Raven says. "Is he awake?"

"Showering. Poor man's a mess, I had to give him some privacy."

"Yeah, he doesn't need you gawking at him while he's got a bullet still in his gut," Raven says.

Charles's nose wrinkles. "Raven, it's serious, come on then.”

He hears her sigh. "Sorry, I guess I can't needle you about how pretty he is until he's feeling better, right?"

“Try to, at least," Charles says.

"Did you see his wound properly?" she asks. “I had trouble this morning and I’m not our _de facto_ medico. Something was weird about it.”

Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's --yes, it’s very strange. He must have heard the shot and tried to stop it, I think -- it went in, but not out. I saw the nose of the bullet pointing out, and realized most of the jacket has been _flattened_ , and he's -- bloody well welded it to his body to keep from bleeding out."

"Ugh!" Raven exclaims. "I guess that’s one way not to die, but… you're going to need him to help get that thing out, huh?”

"Exactly," Charles says, and tips his head back. He looks at the cabin ceiling, the colorful weaving hanging from the rafters. He calms himself, thinks of his and Raven's old "war room" beneath the first floor of the mansion, its low ceiling draped in the dragonfly-fragile fabrics that Raven generated from her disguises, day coats, dresses and lab smocks hung like banners, commemorating their various adventures. Charles has a feeling that they've come into something that will test his and Raven's abilities to the limit, and they cannot be found wanting.

"Once he's done showering, I'll discuss my plans. I'm," Charles cuffs his hand briefly to the receiver, "fairly sure that he's done a repeat job where he got himself shot, if you know what I mean, and getting a proper doctor in the local area is out of the question."

"I've got you covered, doll," Raven says. "There's a private doctor in the marina we'll be taking out from, we'll get him checked out there."

"You’re a miracle," Charles says. "Look, I should go for now. I need to make sure he's got everything he needs in the bathroom, and also that he doesn't pass out."

"You do that," Raven says. "See you later, babe.”

Charles gathers two full-sized towels from the rapidly dwindling supply in the hallway bureau, wondering just how he was going to explain the growing collection of bloody fabrics when he asks to use the washing tub at the main house. He knocks on the bathroom's half-closed door.

"Just dropping off towels," Charles says. He wonders if he'll find Erik glowering at him, or perhaps asleep sitting up. Or maybe disappeared completely, like he was never there. But Erik is still sitting, very solemnly scrubbing at his left leg. He’s removed his briefs, and Charles very delicately ignores his nakedness, setting the towels within easy range.

"We should probably wait to feed you after we survey the wound," Charles says. "It won't be easy."

"Certainly not," Erik says, pausing. "Are you -- _certified_ for this kind of work?"

"No, but I've had training with two war surgeons," Charles says, "and a little bit of practical application. On myself."

"Well, that's not -- too disheartening," Erik mutters. "You're still alive, after all."

Charles huffs. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. All we really need to do is make it look like a _normal_ wound, and then we can get you to the doctor Raven's found in Buenos Aires."

"'Raven'? Part of this 'we', yes?"

"Yes," Charles says. He leans on the door. “She's like us, a mutant.”

"I think --" Erik pauses in the delicate shuffle of lifting one long leg to rinse it in the spray. "I think I recall her. A woman?"

"Yes," Charles says. "You might have thought she was -- Lady? You thought I was."

Erik's brow bows. It’s an expression between embarrassment and confusion. "She was someone I -- knew, before," he says. "She looked after me, taught me English. Her accent is similar to yours.”

"Which explains your accent, then," Charles says. Then he says, in stiff but serviceable German, "We could speak like this, if you like."

Erik squints at him. "High German," he says, in the same language. "Ah, I forgot. You're a scientist."

"Of a kind," Charles says. "I took many biology courses, yes. It is not the same as speaking local language, though. And it was mostly read.”

Erik smiles a fraction. "Your accent sounds like you're a machine."

"That is the way of things," Charles says. He switches back to English. "Want me to leave you alone?"

"No, I'm almost done," Erik says. "I already know I'll need to lean on you to get back to the room."

Charles averts his eyes as Erik stands, shoving the towel towards him a little too quickly to be inconspicuous.

If Erik notices Charles fluster, he is benevolently quiet about it. He dries his legs off with laborious effort, always having to position around the "plate" in his lower torso. Charles winces sympathetically -- Erik has to be accustomed to pain to handle so much of it, but there are limits to such tolerance. He leans heavily on Charles on the way down the hall, and they go at a snail's pace, which makes Charles a little antsy. He wants to get to the carving and cutting to get it out of the way, because it wasn't exactly easy to have gotten his courage up in the first place. Now, there's the complexity of Erik needing to guide the metal out, and the fact Charles can't be much use powers-wise to help dull the pain.

Though Erik doesn't _need_ to know he can't really flex those powers right now. The element of danger still lurks in their unspoken armistice.

Charles checks the temperature of the water in the basin, then pours the rest of the kettle to warm it up a little. Beside him, Erik pulls up a pair of longjohns to his waist, sitting on the bed.

"How are we going to explain the bloody sheets after all this?" Erik asks.

"I was thinking that earlier. Raven and I will come up with something," Charles says.

Erik watches Charles pick through the tools he'd set aside earlier -- the tongs, the scalpel, and now the suture needle and thick thread-- and runs a shaking hand through his hair as Charles adds iodine swabs to the mix.

"Tell me how you know to do all this, again?" Erik asks.

"My father -- step-father -- he was a trench doctor, and when I showed signs of being a bit -- _ambitious_ with my adventures abroad, he thought it prudent to have him and a doctor friend give me some basic training."

"I'd rather sew together my own wound when the time comes,all the same," Erik says. "No offense."

"None taken." Charles preps the iodine, adding a bit more from their kit’s bottle. "And I figure you're going to need to orchestrate this. Just tell me where to cut."

" _Scheisse_ ," Erik says, to himself, and then adjusts on the bed. "Do you have something to --"

"Bite into? Yes," Charles says, handing him a gauze-covered piece of wood.

Erik hesitates, looking at the bit. "You read my mind?"

"Heavens no. It was a logical guess."

"I need you to --" Erik swallows, steeling himself as he looks down as his stomach. The metal part of the wound is barely a few centimeters tall, and only twice that wide. It’s the flesh that it’s been stuck to that makes it look bigger than it is.

"You need to separate the skin from the plate,” Erik says. “Then I can pull it out.”

Charles’s stomach turns slightly at the thought. This is going to be unpleasant for everyone involved. He preps the wound at last, then takes up the scalpel, turning it so that it could angle between the inflamed skin and Erik's flattened bullet jacket. Erik bites down on the wood, and Charles takes that his cue to make the first cut between flesh and metal.

Though only a day old, there's plenty of pus. The smell is enough that Charles wishes he’d smeared camphor under his nostrils. It doesn’t weaken his resolve, though. He pats dry each new cut, keeping the gauze clenched in the tongs. Beside him, Erik clutches the bedsheets, turning red and breathing heavily around the wood bit.

"Doing wonderfully," Charles says, "I'm nearly halfway.”

He makes a slight diagonal incision at the corner of the wound, red blood beading from the edge of healthy skin.

Erik makes a noise that sounds a little like ‘stop’, and Charles pauses to look up at Erik. The man’s face is blotchy, white in places from agony and red from straining, his eyes wet from pain. He looks like he wants to say something, but --

" _Think_ about what you need, Erik," Charles says, taking a moment to switch to change out the iodine and gauze, to clean the scalpel. "I'll read that, nothing more. I swear."

Erik's strong shoulders rise, fall with a shuddering breath. He nods.

Charles Reaches. His mind still twinges with ache, and the sympathetic pain shoots through him immediately, making his eyes cross. There's the language static he's sensed before, and now images, without words: the jacket peeling away like so much paper from the top incision, when freed on either side.

Getting back to his own head is a blessing. "You --" Charles clears his throat. "Cut both the sides, first?"

Erik nods, and grinds his teeth against the bit. Charles does as he's asked. Pus is less in these thinner places, more clear plasma and the ooze of blood.

"All right," Charles says. "Don't go too fast when you pull up, you'll tear the skin on the bottom, and I'll need to staunch the blow from the top when you start --"

Erik looks at the wound, nostrils wide. He looks on the verge of passing out, and trying very hard not to. That fragile remainder of ego, obvious again.

"We can stop for now," Charles says, and Erik snorts loudly in refusal. His corded neck bobs as he swallows, and then he raises a shaking hand to begin his part of the work.

From beneath the damaged skin, the metal begins to curl out like it's being rolled. Blood begins to flow, and Charles moves to staunch it. As it pulls away further, Erik begins to shout against the bit, saliva running down his chin, sweat making his shower redundant.

"I'll get the last part," Charles says, grabbing a hand towel and folding it, preparing to switch it out with the gauze. "You'll need to keep pressure on your wound while I do, I can't do both."

Erik's clammy hand folds over Charles's for a moment, and Charles, his attentions on all worldly and physical things, gets yet another jolt of massive pain from the tactile contact. He shudders and slips his hand away.

"Almost done, Erik," Charles says. He re-sterilizes the scalpel, waits a moment for it to cool, and works on the last part of the jacket. He has to ask Erik to uncurl it a little so he can angle the scalpel more delicately. He feels guilty for the energy it’s costing Erik, but it's better than Charles causing more damage to mend. He sees Erik's white knuckles clench over the red-stained cloth, shoving it into his wound with a little more force than necessary.

"I'm done," Charles says. "Erik, you can do it now."

Erik's eyes are glassy when Charles looks at him, his well-angled face now fully paper-white, his posture on the edge of a faint. Charles wipes his hand quickly on the stained sheets and does something he knows he's going to regret.

He grasps Erik's hand, pushing down towards the staunched wound, and Reaches again with his bruised senses. He lets out a gasp of pain as he Pulls the pain into himself, the dizziness, the nervous fear of having to trust in a stranger, and his side throbs with new kinds of hurt he's not felt before. But _now_ he has, and the metal bandage begins to tug away, a stomach-churning scrape that Charles feels up and down his spine. He’s biting his lip and he’s in danger of biting through. He opens his mouth to gasp but realizes he’s forgotten to breathe this whole time. Things begin to go black on the edges of his vision and --

\-- Erik frees his hand to smack Charles back into his own body. It works. For a moment, Charles retains the pain, hears the offending scrap of metal hit the ground, the surgery complete.

Then the pain transfers back. Erik jerks like he’s been punched square in the gut. His hand around the gauze goes limp, and his eyes roll up in his head. The bit falls from his mouth, then he swoons right back into the pillows, dead to the world.

Charles, left gasping and clammy from pain not his own, decides that Erik's going to have to deal with someone else stitching him up after all, any injury to his pride be damned.


	6. Part One - Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are rather strange,” he says, “for a rich boy.”
> 
> “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Charles says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Warnings : Psychic Descriptions Violence.**

 

> _"Help this blackbird!"_

-xxx-

Raven has returned after the surgery, declaring her intent to mop it up and all but striping and shoving Charles into the shower. He obeys, sitting on the stool beneath the spray, grateful to clean himself of the gore and exhaustion. His side still throbs sympathetically from Erik’s wound. How he’d managed to stay steady enough to stitch Erik up after the fact -- and well, he thought -- well, Charles chalked that up to being decent under pressure.

Properly clean for the first time in days, Charles luxuriates in drying off. He’s put off shaving because he’s yet again forgotten to drag his kit to the bathroom, and it’s cold outside, besides. His hair is a lost cause already, so he leaves it to dry as it will. Charles can look like a dandy when there’s a man awake to impress. And hopefully in a better mood.

Dressed in pyjama bottoms and a tanktop, Charles strolls in to Erik’s room, twisting a towel in his ear. Raven sits with her own pen-and-paper, making notations without looking up.

"I don't think I'll ever meet this guy while he's awake," Raven says. "At least he's pretty to look at."

"I wouldn't know about that."

Raven snorts. "Come in. I can stand to be around you, now that you're clean."

“Thanks your good sense to get more towels,” he says. “We were nearly out. Are you sure you’re not precognizant?”

“Pretty sure, babe,” Raven says, looking up with a squint of a smile. “I don’t know what I’d do with the shit you deal with.”

Charles rubs his face. “It’s not very impressive, considering,” he says.

“Yeah, reading minds isn't special at all," Raven drawls, closing her notebook. “We’re good on heading to the marina in the next week. In the next few days, even.” She nods to Erik. “Do you think _he’ll_ be joining us?”

“Well, I mean,” Charles says, tossing his towel to dry the free chair, flopping down. “He’s probably not got a choice, even if he wanted one.”

“That probably steams him up,” Raven murmurs. “I know it’d make _me_ mad.”

Charles is quiet at that. He looks at Erik, skims to see if he’s truly asleep -- he is -- and wonders how he’ll convince him of going with them all the way to New York. He inhales deeply, feeling a pain in his heart at the thought of being parted, rather than his side. _Not the time for that._

“We’ve got a few things to take care of here," Charles says, jiggling his foot on the ground. "For instance, do you have any idea where our hosts’ washing tub is? We’re going to need to clean up the literally bloody mess we’ve made of their towels. I’d rather not explain why it looks like we’ve cleaned up a murder.”

“Already got the bleaching powder,” Raven says, smiling sweetly.

“Precog,” Charles says, jabbing a finger at her. “Maybe it’s transference from me...?”

“Not really, I just knew you were getting up to some nasty work. You can do the honors of the actual _cleaning_ part, though.”

"My pleasure," Charles says. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Die of overextending yourself, probably," Raven mutters.

Charles winces. There’s still tender feelings from the other night, he knows. “I didn’t _mean_ to, this time.”

“I know,” Raven says, reaching out for his hand. “Hey, you know what?”

Charles brightens. “Yes, what?”

“...You look like you need some beauty sleep, Raggedy Ann.”

He flushes. “Am I -- _that_ bad?”

“If you want to look like a consumption victim for when your man here wakes up…”

“He’s _not_ my man,” Charles says. And adds, “He’ll probably like talking to you more, anyway.”

“Y’okay,” Raven says. “Are you sure he’s not dead, and you’re just tricking me?”

Charles blows her a kiss. “I suppose you’ll find out when I’m asleep.”

“Don’t worry,” Raven says, “I don’t much feel like seducing a narcoleptic. Bad for conversation. I wouldn’t want to make you jealous, anyway.”

"Ha!" Charles says, though he hurries off quickly to not have his face betray him. Erik's tastes, Charles figures, are truly nothing like his own, only having seduced Leiden to get into his room. Raven is eye-catching to most anyone in her human disguise, and unless Erik is utterly married to his work, he's going to at least look twice at her. It's going to hurt when Charles catches that first appreciative glance, no matter Raven's kind intentions of not encouraging anything more.

Down this line of thought is the slippery slope to self-loathing, something Charles does his best to avoid. _I'm here to help him. I'm here to become his_ friend. _I'm not here to flirt, for fuck's sake._

No matter how often he tries to convince himself of this fact, though, he always seems to fail.

He sleeps until the evening and wakes on his own, with little sense of time. It’s already dark outside, and there’s no clock in his room. He remembers his missing watch, rubbing his right wrist. Perhaps he should’ve bought a new one before they left, but he’d had other things on his mind.

The electric lights would be too much for eyes right away, so Charles lights the lamps, looking around his room. He’s not spent much time in it, though he’s got his papers everywhere on the table. Raven and Erik’s rooms are much larger than this, with double windows to the outside world. There’s only one in here, set high towards the ceiling.

The night encroaches in on Charles, as if it’s reaching out to clutch him in its darkness. His hands shake. He’s reminded of another small space -- a black and silent space -- where isolation had been punishment, and not peace.

There’s a knock on the door. He nearly drops the lamp he’s holding.

“Yes?” he asks, containing the hitch in his voice.

“Hey, babe?” It’s Raven, and she peeks her head in. Light pours from the hallway and the kitchen beyond it. She’s in her third outfit of the day, a picnic basket in her hand. “I felt you wake up.”

She frowns, looking at him. He must appear a fright, with the light hitting him from beneath. She doesn’t ask what’s clearly on her mind: _Are you okay?_ She already knows the answer.

They eat on the porch, where just the night before Charles had wandered off into the yard beyond it, stretching out his mind for Erik’s flickering soul. Erik, though a good bit worse for the wear, is now easily in reach, clothed in both a fashionable pyjama set and a dark evening robe. His physical weakness does not extend to having any expression that betrays his mental state.

Raven’s brought a pleasant assortment of grilled meats and local cheeses, and two bottles of decent wine. When it’s poured, the three of them, in unison, begin inspecting the drink at the same time. To study the quality of wine is innate in high-brow etiquette. For Charles, it is bred into his nature; for Raven and Erik, it is knowledge hard won.

Charles watches the liquid and how it tracks against the hand-blown glass, scenting the notes in the burgundy liquid. A provincial blend, it promises to be satisfying.

"Cheers," Charles says, raises his glass. Erik's pale eyes flick up and meet Charles's as they drink.

In this moment there's the brief illusion of a kiss -- of watching Erik's lips touch the rim of the glass, slightly open for the wine. Charles is hyper-aware of his own mouth, something he knows is a talking point among his admirers, and maintains eye contact out of a surge of courage.

"Better than in Brussels," Charles says, softly, lowering his eyes briefly..

Erik snorts. "Indeed." He raises the glass to return to Charles's toast, and sets the wine down.

They eat in silence. What is there to say? Raven easily weathers the quiet, but Charles does not. He’s barely hungry, but he eats because he has to, to regain his strength. Erik finishes before both of them, having cleared his plate.

“Thank you for dinner, Raven,” he says and gathers his dishes to return inside. Just past the table, he stumbles. The glass he saves, but the plate drops and cracks.

Charles gets up immediately, grasping at Erik's shoulder. The man's weight is less than expected, because all Charles has known of Erik is a limp body being dragged about between himself and Raven.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks.

“ _Ja,_ ” Erik says through his teeth. He stares at the ground.

Charles psychic senses, still frayed from their misuse, do not block Erik's pain screaming up his side. again. Or the language static of mistrust, bordering on disgust. Charles pulls away as quickly as he can once Erik rights himself. He holds his hand to his chest as if he’s been burned.

“I’ll get the plate,” Charles says.

“Thank you,” Erik says. Pale now with pain, he makes his way inside without putting a foot out of place.

Raven is the one who picks up pieces of the plate, staring at Charles, who's still frozen in place. When Erik’s out of earshot: "What was _that?_ "

"He's --" Charles blinks at sudden tears, his own. Erik isn’t the sort to cry. "Upset at himself," he lies.

 _Is it a lie? It'd be so nice for all of_ that _not be for_ me.

“He could keep that to himself, then,” Raven says. "You look spooked."

“He’s got a lot to be upset about.”

“I suppose.” Raven is not pleased, sensing Charles's hurt. She stacks the broken plate on the table. “I spoke with him briefly when he woke up,you know. He’s pretty reticent, but I guess that’s what you get if you’re a self-styled Nazi-killing spy supreme. Part of his character, maybe.”

“No, I think, I think that’s just -- _him._ ”

Though something doesn’t sit right with such a simplified description. There’s something else to Erik, a deep secret just beyond Charles’s ken. He can sense it, of course, but cannot reach it. Charles is drawn to this aspect of Erik like an insect fond of open flame.

“Do you think he’ll leave?” Charles asks.

Raven seems prepared for this. Perhaps she’s truly learning to read minds. More likely she simply knows what Charles needs to hear.

“Not tonight,” she says. “Come on, babe.”

They clean up dinner, the dishes and the leftovers. In the kitchen, they start their washing up, which they do with routine familiarity. They are a well-oiled machine, and do not have to be in each other’s minds to move perfectly in sync. It allows time for Charles to simply not think, coasting on impulse. Knowing Raven will help should he stumble keeps Charles confident in his work.

He realizes that Erik has no-one like that in his life. No friends. No allies. No safety net.

Charles stops mid-motion and Raven nearly collides with him.

“Uh-oh,” she says. “You’re thinking, aren’t you?”

"I've been going about this all wrong." Charles puts a soapy hand to his forehead.

“About what?” Raven nudges his cheek with one of the damp stoneware plates.

"Erik,” Charles says, rinsing his hands off. “I need to show him he can trust me.”

Raven’s eyebrows go right past her bangs. “Oh, _that’ll_ be a walk in the goddamn park.”

“I’ve told him I want him to trust me, and -- but -- you said it yourself, he’s not got a choice right now. He must be frustrated.”

“Well, while we're kind of invading his territory,” Raven says, “we did save him from certain death.”

"Yes, but --"

"But nothing." Raven touches his cheek, cool from the water. "You can change your approach, sure. But we stretched our necks out and he knows that, okay? He’s a lot like me, I think, and you know how I get. Prideful to the marrow of our bones.”

Charles thinks of Erik's fragile but furiously independent expression in the shower, and the ache beneath his breastbone strikes again.

“He owes you.” She holds up a finger before Charles can speak. “No, seriously. Even if you say he doesn’t, he’s _never_ going to be convinced that’s true. It’s stifling him.”

Charles rubs his eyes. “I suppose I’ll find a way around that,” he says. “Let me see what I can do tonight.”

He returns to his room and turns on the lights properly, this time. It dispels the dark well enough, but there’s still that promise of it in the rafters, in the shadows of his room. Charles takes off the robe he’d worn outside and pulls out his nightshirt to layer for warmth. It’s an old fashioned dress shirt in linen, nice and airy, and when he looks in the mirror, he feels quite foolish at what he sees staring back at him. The shirt has always been to big for him, enveloping him: so many men have found him charming in it. He thinks so too. But all the tumbling curls and coquettish looks would not move Erik. He hopes, at least, it will make him seem less -- imposing.

 _Imposing! Really. You?_ Yet he has to do something to give Erik some kind of sense of advantage. If he looks like a barefoot innocent, all the better. Raven is right: Erik knows he _owes_ Charles, and it is a weakness he can hardly abide.

Charles takes a pitcher of water and two glasses, knocking on Erik’s door.

“Yes?” Erik's voice sounds stronger. Or at least, he's good at faking it.

“Bringing some water for you,” Charles says. “I’d like to talk.”

“Come in, then.”

He nudges the door open with his foot. Erik is cleaning the stitches on his side with supplies from his own medical kit. He's turned away from the door. The lamps cast harsh lines of shadow on the moving muscles of his back.

Charles pours Erik’s water and sets it beside the man’s medkit and takes his seat.

“You’ll need another shot of penicillin soon,” Charles says. “We have two more doses.”

“I have one left,” Erik says, still engrossed with tending his stitches. He looks up briefly. “So, you gave me one, then.”

“I fear you might have gotten more ill than you are now,” Charles says. He shrugs. The shirt falls down his shoulder, exposing his collarbone. He pulls it up with a self-conscious flush. Erik hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Hmm.” Erik bandages the wound. Charles watches the cords in his arms move with great interest.

“The stitching is well done,” Erik murmurs.

“Oh, it’s because I mend my own problems. It’s easier on someone else.”

Erik looks at him. His expression is -- perplexed, but with no hard lines.

“You are rather strange,” he says, “for a rich boy.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Charles says.

"Do," Erik says, tilting his head, like a bird would. His pale eyes wash out until the pupils seem to be the only color on his face. Like Charles, he knows his best angles and how to use them.

Charles clears his throat. "I wanted to -- ask. If you found what you were looking for before you were injured.”

This, Erik hadn’t expected to hear. It shows plainly on his face, and he thinks about his next words carefully. He takes a sip of water, mulling over the glass as if it was the wine from before. Charles waits, on tenterhooks.

Erik says, hesitantly, "Yes, and no."

"What happened?" Charles asks, forcing himself to be measured, firmly squashing the eager desire to offer aid readily.

Erik takes a few more sips of water. Charles stands up to pour him more, approaching slowly. As one might to not spook a nervy stallion.

“How much did you hear, in Leiden’s room?” Erik asks.

“I know you’d, ah, spoken with two contacts in Switzerland. One of them more -- intimately than the other.”

“Yes,” Erik says. “The banker, and the police inspector. Well, the banker didn’t know much. He just confirmed Villa Gesell for me, which was well enough.” Erik smiles, savoring a memory. “The inspector, well. He told me about Ritcher -- Leiden -- that he’s still consorting with the man I’m looking for. _Was_ consorting.”

Charles’s heart does a rather nervous flutter at Erik’s pleased look at murdering a man. It isn’t one of misplaced affection, this time. Erik is dangerous. Charles needs to remember that, for his own sake. Despite self-preservation being one of his least developed skills.

“I thought Ritcher would have more information,” Erik continues. “I knew Villa Gesell could give me answers, but I wanted to go right to the source. Ritcher could have told me everything. He was -- uncooperative, as you saw.”

Charles shudders despite himself. He had felt the man die, his consciousness snuffed, and though he would never mourn a Nazi, he is forever bound to the man’s demise.

“The man you’re looking for -- you thought he’d sent me,” Charles says, brushing away his discomfort. He leans forward, trying to look serious in his ridiculous shirt.

“Yes,” Erik says. “The information dear Otto gave me was stagnant. I’d already cleared out the places he gave me.”

“Except this one,” Charles says.

“Yes. You must’ve heard me, then?”

Charles nods.

“Fascinating, really,” Erik says. He finishes his water, sets the glass down. “What else can you do, Charles Xavier?”

“I --” Charles rubs his neck, as if straightening out a crick. He knows better than to tell Erik everything, if he doesn’t want to panic the man. Or have it used against him. “I can read minds, and create -- a kind of illusion to hide myself, as you know, it can extend to others. I can stop people for just a little while, like I did you.” Which is a lie: he can do so for quite some time, even if the person is unconscious. As he had Erik, though Erik doesn’t remember _that._

"I know someone who can do similar things," Erik says, but doesn't elaborate. The idea of someone else out there that is like Charles both frightens and intrigues him; if he can manage to make peace with Erik tonight, he’ll ask later. Perhaps Erik will even answer him.

“So, you came here, but didn’t get what you needed,” Charles says, pulling the conversation back on track.

“Ah.” Erik rubs his chin, audibly scratchy from a few days without shaving. The hairs a ginger, like Charles’s. “I -- was in an altercation at my destination. When I left, I was shot by someone that I had not --” He licks his lips, looking at his hands. “--properly been taken care of. Whatever I’d learned -- I can’t remember. I’ll have to return to the bar once it’s cleaned out. Perhaps a week. I’m not sure.”

Charles thinks to say that he doesn’t mind staying longer. What comes out of his mouth instead is: “I could remember for you.”

Erik leans back in his bed and stares at Charles with a inscrutable stare. "You."

"I, yes," Charles says. He holds his hands out in a peaceful gesture. “Please. You know that I mean you no harm, or at least -- I think you do. I haven’t raced across the world to find you on a lark.”

“Are you sure about that?” Erik’s smile is between callous and kind.

Charles pinches his lips together.

“I can _help_ you,” he says. “I know you feel that -- that I expect something. I do, perhaps. To help you. That’s what I want.”

Erik’s cheeks flush. Anxiety radiates off him. He doesn’t trust Charles on the physical plane, why would he in the psychic one?

“Erik,” Charles says, putting aside the farce of fragility, of trying to appear harmless when he knows very well he is not. “If I wanted to, I could just do it. But I won’t. I want your permission, first.”

Erik looks at Charles. He is no longer the hunter smiling over past acts of violence, but a young man on the edge of running away from something that he cannot make sense of. He has his hand on his injury as if to brace it should he do just that. Despite every centimeter of him screaming revulsion at the idea of allowing someone into his mind, he says, “Yes.”

Charles does not need tactile contact to do this, but he reaches out to touch Erik’s temple, then rests his fingers on his own. Before he begins, he thinks to Raven, _I’m going in, to help him._

Then closes his eyes and walks into Erik Lehnsherr’s mind.

The man is already attempting to control the flow of information that Charles sees, but it is not difficult for Charles to pry past Erik’s modest defenses. He pushes back, willing Erik to show him When It Started. There’s the impression of the airport. Renting the cabin room. Charles feels foreign language on his own tongue, comprehension that isn’t his.

Memories cannot properly be accessed by the person who possesses them. A psychic like Charles can see them in near linear fashion. He tries not to be distracted by flashes of bright and fragile recollections and the dark spots of unpleasant, wretched memories that come upon a person in the worst possible moments.

Charles presses through to find that singular line of thought, now rocking back and forth on a bus from the dunes to Villa Gesell’s young forest. A jacket at his shoulder. A hat to take off. Sunglasses. Is this the place? The lakeside tavern. Enter, and have a drink. Decide what to do. Who to ask.

There is triumph, when Erik sees the owners. Not yet. A drink first. Past the lunchtime rush. Only the two of them and the bartender.

He looks up. There is a picture but it is not clear: the memory unfocuses, jitters -- this is the moment before a Confrontation, and it is damaged. Something has disrupted this memory. Charles swallows bile, fear in this single moment. _This_ is what he must reconstruct. But things must play further, so he may see this image again when Erik’s mind is clearer.

Beneath his fingers, Erik flinches, trying to pull his mind away.

Not yet, Charles says. Calm your mind. Let me See.

Erik speaks. High German, which Charles knows well enough. For the best, because he must use all his power in Seeing.

 _Ah, German Bier?_ Claro.

Ja, it's Bitburger, tastes gut, yeah?

_Das beste._

Hatred. It is so stark that Charles finds himself reeling, pulling himself back in. Focusing on Erik’s fury is easier. It is something Charles understands more.

 _Was hat sie ended up in Argentina?_ I know why I am here.

The Klima. I am Schweinebauer. You are swine.

Ich bin tailor. Since meiner childhood. Because of you, I had no childhood.

My father made the Schönsten Anzüge Düsseldorf gemacht. Was your father also filth, like you?

The surge of emotion in Erik -- in Charles -- is both fury and excitement, near ecstasy. His skin tingles. It’s his power, surging through his body. He has Gotten what he has Come For, he has found Him, and now -- Now -- he will Play with his Prey because nothing delights him more --

\-- a brief, strange image of Charles himself in a memory-within-a-memory, his face flushed and eyes tear-bright, but furious and proud --

Erik stands. Turns. Smiles so hard it strains his face, almost mad with giddy pleasure.

_My Eltern kamen from Düsseldorf!_

What ist their name?

**They don't have names.**

This said so clear and Charles understands so immediately that his own recognition passes between him and Erik, this thrill of sympathetic fury, and Charles scrabbles for his concentration once more.

The memory is set into place and missing any part of it will --

\-- _their names_ \-- _wurde ihnen weggenommen_ \-- _by Swinehearders and Cloth-Cutters_ \--

The pleasurable rush of having cornered his prey. Erik sees the men’s faces drop, and he has cut the tether for their freefall. He toasts them both, and they drink because that is simply what you do. The smile strains his face.

He turns over his left arm --

**214782**

The memory becomes a flurry of delight and danger. The man closest thinks he can take him with his little stick-pin of a knife, oh, look here,

_Blut und Ehre, which do you want to shed first?_

We had our orders --

_**also Blut.** _

He feels the flesh parting on either side of the knife and he shudders because yes, you swine, _scream_ because you had your orders? did you? pathetic!

Shoot him! The bartender has a gun, does he? Oh, charming, how charming

And his power, oh that power that Erik summons, sweet and nigh orgasmic, and Charles wants to revel in it, dive into this moment like one would a lover’s heat but

_He must watch, he cannot stray and_

Erik Reaches with his power and Pulls the Trigger and

The Shot rings out and the Cloth-Cutter crumples and

The Knife slides into bartender’s gut, warm and red and

Right back into the Swinefucker’s hand and

Fingers through his hair because He said a gentleman must never be unkempt and

Charles thrills to feel it as if his own hands are pushing through Erik's hair and

_ What are you? _

The squalling voice brings Erik back to his task, the high of battle begins to ebb, the tide of victory crashing. The empty, good feeling of finally Knowing, _Knowing_ where He is, and

_Let's just say I'm Frankenstein's Monster._

He must see His face, and inscribe the Words one more time

And Charles sees the words, now, through the jitter, the fear upon seeing His face lessened by a blood lust sated --

 **C** A S P A R T I N A, **M** I A M I

_And I'm looking for my creator._

The knife lifts, twists, wipes across the Swine’s neck. An arc of blood that does not reach Erik’s pristine shirt. Coat. Hat. Sunglasses. Return. Plan.

**EINS**

He is at the door when he hears the gun cock. The bartender -- No --

**ZWEI**

Power blossoms outwards to build a wall around him but not fast enough _Not Fast Enough_ and --

**DREI**

 -- Charles is all but thrown back when the shot rings out. He gasps in pain, holding his side. The bond between Erik snaps abruptly. He falls to his knees beside Erik’s bed, fighting nausea and such fear he hasn’t felt in, in, in --

" _Charles!_ "

Raven. His long-forged lifeline bursts through the door. Her silk bathrobe flutters as she jolts in the room. Red haired and blue all over, heedless of strangers. Of Erik. He lets out a sob when he sees her and throws his arms around her, pressing his cheek to her pebbled shoulder.

"It's, I'm, it's not physical," Charles gasps.

"Yes it is," Raven says. "You felt it, you're hurt."

"No, I'm fine, I'm --"

"No." She jerks back and puts her hands on either side of his face, the force of her true strength behind that touch. Her yellow eyes are damp. "What do you feel?"

"I, I --”

She shakes him at the shoulders. " _What do you feel!_ "

"How, how much you --" Charles crashes down at last from the trauma he has borrowed from another man’s mind and heart. “H-how much you love me --”

" _What else._ ”

"How fond -- fond you are of me --"

 _What else_ , Raven says in his mind, petting down his sweaty hair, forehead to his. She's weeping.

 _How worried you are for me_ , Charles thinks back, tears hot on his face, too. He can feel his body now. Aching, tired, but whole and not wounded.

_Oh, Raven, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

_No, baby, no. No, don’t be sorry._

"Oh."

Charles, for the first time in weeks, has forgotten Erik existed. Despite the fact he had been in the man’s mind just minutes before. That he’d been the object of boyish fondness and mooning, all the while Charles forgetting what Erik truly is. He is a victim of great evil, and he is a killer of cold resolve.

Right now, Erik is pale and clammy from recalling his injury, the memory around it, but he's staring at Raven, and Raven is staring at him, too stunned to immediately react.

Before Raven can finish her knee-jerk transformation to her human form, Erik says, “You’re so beautiful.”

His gaze and voice are so soft and reverent that he can't be lying. Charles, first rankled at Erik staring at Raven, touches the surface of Erik's mind.

 _He’s being honest,_ he thinks at her.

"You don't have to hide," Erik says. Raven's now in human form, rising from her crouch slowly, like a cautious predator. Only Charles can see her breathing has quickened in nervous surprise.

"I prefer it when there's less people around," Raven says,  tossing her head back. "They don't take kindly to what they see, if it's not a busty blond --"

"Humans, you mean." Erik says. “ _Humans_ don’t take kindly to what they cannot fathom.”

"Yeah, them," Raven says.

"I'm not human."

The air in the room has shifted. Raven is staring Erik down, refusing to be moved by his declarations.

"Charles," Raven says, "you and our new friend here should get ready for bed.”

"No, I --" Charles sits up, reaching for the small padded address book in his case, pulling out a pencil. He fumbles to the blank pages. "I need to finish what I started. I'm, I saw it, Erik. I did. I pieced it together.”

Erik shifts, finally tearing his unreadable gaze away from Raven, to Charles. "What is it?"

"I think it's the name of a boat, a yacht," Charles says, writing it down as he speaks. "The _Caspartina._ "

" _Caspartina_ ," Erik repeats.

"And if I saw correctly -- I know exactly where it is, and how we can get there. It's in Miami, Florida."

Erik leans back in the pillows again, almost as if he's fainted, though his body is rigor straight. He looks at his hands, at Raven's stiff posture, and at Charles.

"Then," he says, "that's where I have to go."

"Where _we_ have to go," Charles says.

Erik frowns. Charles closes his notes. He's always been afraid of rejection. But here he must stand firm, despite the tension, taking advantage of Erik's weakened state. There is that hard, painful ache in Charles’s chest, how Correct it is to be here. To help Erik. He’s bursting with it, holding back a plea: _please, please let me help you._

"It's true," Raven says, putting a hand on the table, and then on Charles's knuckles. "We've got a yacht ready to go in Buenos Aires, and if this _Caspartina_ 's in Miami, we'll find that marina right away. We were heading up the coast anyway. It’s about a week’s trip from here to Nassau. Once we get there, we can regroup. We know just what to do. This stuff’s old hat for us, right Charles?”

"Yes," Charles says.

Erik looks at Raven again. Charles realizes that it's not attraction, at least. It's awe.

"I would," Erik says, "appreciate you taking me to Miami."

A thrill of triumph goes through Charles, and he turns his hand up to grasp Raven's.

"We'd be glad to," Charles says, fighting a smile.

"But first, boys," Raven demands, "bedtime."

"Yes ma'am," Charles says, standing and leaning into her to kiss her cheek.

He and Erik match eyes. Charles see Erik, shadow-eyed and exhausted. Not quite sure of himself, or how the armor around his fragile pride will weather being helped by strangers. His jaw clenches, steeling himself for Charles to gloat. Which, of course, he does not.

“Sleep well,” Charles says, "Erik."

"You as well," Erik says.  "I'll see you in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the German transcript of this scene from [here](https://www.deviantart.com/bluenique/art/Transcribt-2-212268966)!
> 
> If you want to know what Charles's power sounds like, [it's a lot like this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktkRzVEMQCo). The first part until 1:18 is something I want to use one day for a trailer vid for this set of fics.
> 
> If you want to know _right away_ what it sounds like in the other half of the chapter? Just skip to 1:19, [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktkRzVEMQCo#t=1m19s) (Warning: Distortion, Kate Bush.)


	7. Part One - Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are we truly meant for this?” His voice is tight, accusatory. “Or is this just a boy's foolish dream?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Please check out the Blanket Warnings from the Notes!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682359/chapters/36435807)   
>    
>  **Other Warnings : This chapter contains allusions to sex, both the pleasant and the dubious kind, including child abuse. While not explicit, it's definitely inferred. Also: Charles is still rather blasé about dating older men when they really should have told him no.**

> _Poor little thing,_  
>  the blackbird.  
>  _Wings in the water_  
>  go down.

-xxx-

Charles is on driving duty the next day, insisting on it. Raven does so much of their legwork, calling around and investigating, due to the fact she can quite literally be anyone she needs to be for the task. There are limits to even Charles’s ability to throw money at people to make them do what he wants. He’s not in the business of manipulating people unless entirely necessary. He wants to do _some_ of the work when he can.

His would otherwise have passed this morning on account of his arms feeling like rubber. He and Raven had spent much of the twilight hours trying to salvage the towels they’d ruined. Some of them had been too far gone to save. Charles paid for discretion and new towels to their hosts before they left.

They have the top up on the convertible, for Charles’s sake. Though it’s cold, the sun is out in force, and he's already pink and tender in varied places. It also allows Erik sleep curled in the back seat, their luggage making a barrier in the space between the seats so he doesn’t fall forward in the crack. Raven looks back at him every so often to check on him.

“I feel kinda bad,” she says, “dragging him around like this. Like leading a soft-mouth horse with a new bit.”

“It’s best for him,” Charles says. “It’s why we’re taking a boat in the first place. He needs time to heal.”

“What _you_ think is best for him is probably definitely not what he thinks,” Raven reminds him, gentle. “You think you know what’s best for _everyone_ , babe, and that gets you into trouble.”

Charles hunches, a little. “In this case, though…”

“It’s his best _option_.”

“I suppose.”

Erik is blessedly asleep for this exchange.

They make a brief stop outside the city for lunch. When they get to the harbor, Raven leaves to prep the boat for launch, leaving Charles to take Erik to his appointment.

“Erik,” Charles says, gently touching the man’s shoulder.  “Erik? We're here.”

Erik startles awake, lets out a little gasp of pain when he sits up. He stares at Charles like he’s never seen the man before.

“What -- oh.” He looks around, still white-faced, and remembers. “Yes, we’re here, then.”

The doctor operates in an unmarked upper level of a shoe store. He's a no-nonsense man who clearly makes these discrete "house calls" often, and asks no questions. He reminds Charles rather pleasantly of Dr. Schimmer. _It’ll be good to see him. Erik will like him. If I can convince Eirk to head up to New York with me after Miami, at least..._

“Stitchwork isn’t bad,” the doctor says to Charles. “You did this?”

“Yes,” he says. “Trained by trench doctors.”

“Hmm,” the doctor says, clearly satisfied with the answer. He give Erik another shot of penicillin and sells Charles a new bottle and needle.

“Tell him when you feel bad,” the doctor says to Erik, as if he knows Erik’s already the kind of man to refuse help. “Abscess will certainly kill you.”

“Yes,” Erik says. When he pulls down his shirt, Charles notices that Erik’s no longer disoriented. Instead, he has a distant look in his eyes, not focusing on anything in particular. A raptor in jesses, staring at the bars of its cage, longing to stretch its wounded wings.

It's no surprise, then, that the first days on the boat trip are rocky ones. They start in cramped quarters at first: Erik and Charles share the bunk room, giving Raven her privacy in the entertaining deck, where the sitting couch is located. Charles finds it easy to fit into his bunk, but poor Erik must curl up in his. It's even less room than he had in the car.

“It’s not good for your wound,” Raven says, after day two, jabbing a fork towards him as Erik limps down into the galley on the bottom deck. “The doctor said you need to keep it aired out, and you can’t do that all curled up. You can take the entertainment room, the couch should be enough for those long legs of yours.”

Erik’s eyebrows lift. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“I mean, you _do_ ,” Raven says. “If you want that thing to get all gooey and infected after all our hard work, sure.”

“I see your logic,” Erik says.

“I’m full of wisdom,” Raven says, nudging Charles in the side, “especially when it comes to foolhardy boys.”

Erik looks at Raven a bit longer than Charles likes. It always seems as if he’s trying to understand her, as if to build defenses or navigate around her.

“Well, glad that’s settled,” Charles says, “we want you to be in your best shape, after all!”

Erik keeps his eyes on his plate as he sits down. “Best shape for _what_ , exactly?”

Charles and Raven exchange looks.

“Going ashore? To find this Man?” Charles ventures. “I thought we were going to take a plane to Miami once we got to Nassau.”

Erik’s fingers curl around his cutlery.

“You can’t follow me there,” he says.

Charles shakes his head, patting the table. “Well, we can’t very well leave you without help, can we?”

“ _I didn’t ask for your help in the first place.”_

Erik’s face has gone white, his nostrils flaring. Something about him _hums_ , rings in Charles’s ears. The port windows vibrate in their frames, the metal around them crumpling. The galley cabinets have begun rattling.

“ _Erik!_ Stop it!”

It’s Raven. She smacks her hand on the table next to Erik’s white-knuckled fists. Blue ripples up her arm with the force.

The cabinets, and Erik, obey. The hull straightens out around the windows. There is an uneasy quiet. Charles is still standing beside the table, his heart beating very fast in his ears.

“Look.” Raven stands, eyes on Erik. “I _get_ it. You’re not excited to be here. You’re having a rough time being cooped up with strangers, and you’re injured on top of it. I don’t know who you’re chasing, and I’m not going to ask! That’s your business. But you can stop showing off your powers when you get a little bit testy. You’re not a _kid._ Use your _words._ ”

Erik opens his mouth. He clearly has something to say -- heated, foolish -- but instead, he sits forward in the booth.

“I would like a choice,” Erik says, very quietly. “For once. I haven't had many so far.”

It seems very loaded, this statement. It is both request and apology.

“All right.” Raven’s expression softens. _He and I are the same_ , Charles remembers her saying. “Would you like to stay in the sitting room, Erik? I think it’d be better for your wound.”

“Yes,” he says. “I’d like that.”

“How about I get your things,” Raven asks, “would that be all right?”

“No, I’d like to get them later myself.”

“Okay,” Raven says. She sits back down to eat without another word. When it’s time to clean up, Raven leaves that to Charles, and goes to set their course. Now Charles and Erik are alone.

“Thank you for, um,” Charles begins, “telling us what you -- would like.”

Erik looks up from his coffee. “Pardon?”

“You, ah, I mean. We’re -- it’s good to know.” Charles is a trained orator, clever and confident even when he knows he’s being ridiculous. Now all that's out the window. “Raven and I aren’t used to having people in our -- so close to us, um. Who know us. About the…” He wags his hand.

“The…?” Erik urges, perplexed.

“The mutant thing. Oh, it’s just. We’re very used to -- getting --”

“Getting your way?” Erik folds a hand under his chin. He has the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “Now this is _quite_ honest of you, Charles.”

“That’s -- yes,” Charles says. He rubs his face. “Yes, we are. With each other, with the world. We’re simply not used being around someone that might not want to be talked to like we talk to each other.”

“Yes, I am not the brotherly type,” Erik says.

“Raven’s sympathetic to how you feel,” Charles explains. “I used to insult her all the time when I didn’t mean to, when she first came to live with me. I thought offering her everything and anything she desired was what _anyone_ would want. I didn’t know how to talk to someone who hadn’t -- well, it’s a long story.”

“I see,” Erik says. “She’s picked up on some bad habits, then.”

“It’s an even exchange. She taught me how to be more belligerent, to stand up for myself,” Charles says. He smiles, filled with love for his sister, the warm rush of old memories and recent ones soothing his nerves. “She seems to regret it, though! Trying to teach me to shut my mouth, lately.”

“I think she’d need to _physically_ do that for it to work,” Erik says, then wipes down his mouth with his napkin. “And she’s right. Showing off doesn’t -- it doesn’t suit me. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

“I don’t think you are,” Charles says. “I think you’ve had a very bad experience, you’re ill, and two people are talking over your head the whole time.”

“You both are very astute at prescribing situations, aren’t you?” Erik says, one brow up. “Though you’re not wrong. It is -- _disconcerting_ , to be the third party.”

He pauses. In a quiet voice: “I feel rather alone.”

“But you’re _not_ alone,” Charles says, hoping he’s both honest enough, earnest enough. He wants to reach out to grasp Erik’s hand, but resists. “You have _friends_ now.”

Erik smiles sadly.

“We’ll see,” he says.

-xxx-

There is a peace struck after the lunch incident and the rest of the trip is near-idyllic. Erik moves to the sitting room to sleep. He spends much of his time reading there and seems to enjoy the selection of music Charles unearths he record player. When it’s time to check his wounds, Erik endures with patience Charles's poking and prodding. His wound is healing well, with no abscess.

When they reach the Bahamas after six more days of travel, they are in good spirits. They have their feet on land and will be eating food not cooked from cans and packages. Erik and Raven depart first, looking a matching pair in their pale tailored clothes, their fashionable hats and sunglasses.

Charles lags behind. He’s is saddled with the majority of their luggage and is finding _his_ good spirits draining with each bead of sweat down his neck. As always, the need for Raven to appear as a well-bred young lady with no preternatural strength means Charles must carry more than his share. Normally, he manages, but with Erik being injured, his burden is increased.

“Hey noodle arms!” Raven calls out from the other end of the pier. “Need help?”

 _I hate you_ , Charles thinks at her. She laughs.

Erik says something to Raven, then walks down the pier towards Charles. Charles is stooped among the baggage when Erik arrives, so he’s shorter than usual.

“You’re rather bad at taking your own advice,” Erik murmurs.

“What?” Charles says, wiping the sweaty curls from his face.

Erik leans over, careful of his side. He is very close.

“Asking for help,” he says. He picks the two lightest bags to carry with his briefcase, then gives Charles a soft-eyed smile.

“I’ll remedy that in the future,” Charles says, feeling  suddenly refreshed.

They rent a seaside bungalow for the next few nights and order in an extravagant dinner, which they eat in their private pavilion. Erik doesn’t speak much, but he appears to enjoy Raven and Charles filling the evening with their stories. The wind picks up, and it makes it hard to stay out longer, at least with plates and napkins and glasses clacking. Raven and Charles pack dinner up, leaving Erik to tie down the chairs and fold the umbrella.

“He still out there?” Raven asks, coming into the common area between their bedrooms. She’s transformed into a comfortable, modest sleep dress that hits past her knees, effortlessly pretty.

Charles, a little tacky still from sweat and low on clean options for sleeping clothes, does not feel quite as comely. He tries to make himself look presentable in the borrowed hotel robe. He glowers in the mirror, adjusting the collar. It’s made for a man with broader shoulders, and it slips down to reveal more chest and collarbone than he’d like. “I suppose he is? He’s a little late for the sunset.”

Raven peeks through the blinds of the floor-length sliding door. “Looks like he’s out for a smoke.”

“I see,” Charles says, feeling that ridiculous ache in his chest.

 _Go on_ , _talk to him_ , Raven thinks. _I know you want to._

 _Of course I want to,_ Charles replies, savagely tugging at his robe, giving up. _But_ should _I?_

_You’re the one who wants to be his friend, baby._

Charles can’t fault her logic. He slips on house shoes and opens the door to the covered deck. Amid the fluttering white curtains and clattering lanterns is Erik, still fully dressed. He favors his left side as he leans over the railing. Smoke curls lazily from his nose and mouth. When the sliding door closes, he looks at Charles, and his mouth curls slightly, showing off some teeth.

“Hello there, ‘Noodle Arms’,” he says.

“Hello yourself,” Charles says. He saunters over, patting in the corners of his robe to his slacks pockets. He pulls out his cigarette case and chooses one, taps it sharply. “Do you have a light?”

“I thought you were supposed to bring me wine, first,” Erik says, perfectly relaxed, amused.

“Oh!” Charles looks back at the door. “Well, if you want some, I could --”

Erik laughs. “ _Charles._ ”

He leans into Charles’s space as he had at the dock. Charles manages not to fumble his cigarette as Erik touches the lit end of his to light it. After a few shared puffs, it works, and Charles takes in the smoke and keeps it in his chest for a moment, the burn of it helping clear his head.

“Do you think you’ll be well enough to fly?” Charles asks.

“I think so,” Erik says. “What does my doctor think?”

“I won’t be a doctor for another three years, so...”

Erik snorts. “You’ll be a professor, not a doctor.”

“You’re not a professor until you have a class to teach,” Charles says, grinning around his cigarette. “Besides, _you’re_ the one who said I was a doctor.”

“Ah, you must forgive me," Erik sighs. "English isn’t my first language.”

“You can’t use that every time you want to take back what you said,” Charles says.

“Well if you didn’t fall for it every time, I wouldn’t bother.”

“You’re as bad as Raven,” Charles says, leaning on the rail.

“I could do worse, hmm?” Erik says, leaning over to flick one of Charles’s curls away from his forehead. “I could be as bad as you, flopping around like you do, flirting with murderers and dragging them around on boats.”

Charles leans towards Erik's hand.  “It’s almost as if I find trouble on purpose, what can I say?”

“Yes,” Erik says. “You found me.”

“I’m glad I came out here,” Charles says. “Not just -- I mean outside, today. Ah, tonight.”

“I know what you meant,” Erik says. “I am too.”

The night creatures make their voices heard. Somewhere in the distance, laughter and faint music. The tide is so close, one can almost feel its push-and-pull against the shore. Charles rests his hand beside Erik’s, just close enough so that they touch, and Erik doesn’t move away.

-xxx-

Charles leaves the bungalow at sunrise to purchase pastry from a small cafe, waiting in line for over a half hour. When he returns with his bounty, he sets coffee on in the kitchenette and arranges the pastry on a tray. There’s the matter of checking Erik’s stitches this morning, of course, but that can wait until _after_ breakfast.

“Erik,” Charles says, tapping on the closed door with his foot. “It’s Charles. I’ve got breakfast.”

Silence. Charles frowns, setting the tray down. He knocks properly, a small panic mounting as he thinks of Erik having fallen into a fever, or worse. Charles turns the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and leans into the door as it opens. “Erik? Are you all right?”

Erik is gone.

The room is sterile and still, left so clean it’s hard to tell anyone has been in there at all. It is too early for the maids to have come, so it had to have been tidied by its occupant before he’d left at some odd hour in the morning, perhaps never having gone to sleep at all.

Charles experiences a rush of unpleasant emotions. The strongest of these is embarrassment: he should have expected this. The second is disappointment. The third is -- not quantifiable, but it makes his eyes burn. He walks into the room and sits down heavily on the bed, putting his head in his hands.

Tears do not come. He knows where Erik is headed, of course. Charles is the one that had discovered this Man’s whereabouts. If they leave today, he and Raven may very well be able to intervene, or find him, should he be hurt.

Charles works to shake himself to some semblance of rational thought, to begin to plan his and Raven’s next move, and notices something on the bed.

Folded on top of the pink-and-blue striped pillow case is the mended white polo Erik had worn when he’d been shot. Once it’d been patched and clean, he’d used it as a sleep shirt so that he wouldn’t ruin any more of his clothing while he healed. It is still slightly stiff from being washed and dried more than once on the voyage, but it had been slept in recently, perhaps only a day ago. There are still marks from Erik’s sunblock on the collar.

There is no mistake it has been left on purpose. Erik Lehnsherr is, at heart, a sentimental man. He’d left in silence so that Raven and Charles could not follow. The polo remains behind, the proof of their grand adventure.

And there had been other things. How Erik had smiled at Charles when he’d acknowledged his helpless flirtations. How he had let their hands touch the night before. Like the polo, these moments had been gifts.

Charles’s self-pity is replaced with terrible realization. Erik has not simply _run away_. He knows Raven and Charles can easily give chase, even with his head start. This is his gentle refusal of their aid, a solemn goodbye. Erik expects to confront the Man, and then he expects to die.

Clutching the fabric in his fist, he stands. _Raven_ , he thinks, finding her in her morning routine. _I need you, something’s happened._

 _Babe?_ Her haze of drowsiness dissipates quickly. _What’s wrong?_

 _Erik’s left._ Charles folds the shirt over his arm. _He’s gone ahead without us._

“ _What?_ ” Raven’s voice is audible from her room. Her door opens in moments, and she rushes in to Erik’s room. “Oh, _dammit._ ”

“We can find him.” Charles’s voice calm, his chest hollow with purpose. “We have to leave.”

“I know,” Raven says, and reaches out to touch his face to soothe him. He leans his head in her hands and shuts his eyes. “Look, I’ll go make some calls. Pack up.”

“Thank you, Raven,” he says. He hates how weak he sounds.

“Always,” she says, kissing his cheek.

Charles lingers in the room. He unfolds the polo once more, thumbing the rigid collar. In a moment of foolish heartache, he raises the shirt to his face and inhales: hard water and soap, aftershave, and his sweat --

_\-- is salty against Charles’s tongue as he moves his mouth up Erik’s neck, and they’re fitted together as one person, and he digs furrows into Erik’s back as they roll over on their bed and when their lips meet again they make sweet noises of relief between them as if to say:You’re Alive, You’re Here, At Last --_

Charles jerks backwards, dizzy and flushed with arousal not his own. He stares at the fabric, turning it over in his hands while also trying to calm his heart. It had been scent-memory, not a fantasy. By now he knows the difference. It’s something so strangely _real_ , as if summoned from a point of time Charles has experienced, but not lived through yet.

With Charles, it’s more than possible that’s the case. It’s happened before. Which makes the situation more dire.

“Are we truly meant for this?” His voice is tight, accusatory. “Or is this just a boy's foolish dream?”

He leaves before the ghosts of the future can answer him.

-xxx-

The plane ride is mostly quiet between Charles and Raven, with him looking out the window and Raven squeezing his hand. She gets him to eat lunch, and shuffles him around the airport concourse like a drowsy sheep.

“What is it?” she asks, when they’re finally in the taxi.

“I had one of _those_ dreams,” Charles says. _A vision. The ones I think are from the future._

“You haven’t had those in a while,” Raven says. _What was it like?_

“I know, it’s derailed me.” _I saw us -- Erik and I -- together. That can’t be true, right?_

“Well, it’s a stressful time.” _Don’t start that, dummy. Chin up, what what, stiff upper something._

_I don’t know how to keep on and carry anything, I’m half American, don’t you know._

_You’re so ridiculous._

Raven puts her arm around him. Charles leans his head on Raven’s shoulder, letting the contact soothe him until they reach their stop.

“I’ll need to call Daniel when we get to the office,” Charles says as they unload their luggage. Raven’s taking her share this time, “appearances be damned” she’d said. “You called him down in Argentina, yeah?”

“Yes, collect even. And I did my very _bes_ t flirty you,” Raven says. “Don’t worry, no pickup lines. They’d be so smooth that he’d know I was a fake.”

“Oh, _thanks_.”

Charles steels himself for the call. Daniel is a boy from his undergraduate days that’s still quite infatuated with him, and he’s liable to be quite eager to do more than just arrange Well, not a _boy_ \-- Dan had been in his early twenties when he’d been involved Charles two years ago -- but he’s a bit immature in the way most rich boys are. Charles is not cruel to his former lovers, though he’s not above using them when necessary.

It’s necessary _now_ , for cover. Dan has more than one expensive yacht in the waters around the bay, and once things are arranged for the rental -- and Charles promises a dinner date he doesn’t plan to keep -- the two drag their belongings to the yacht. It’s much bigger than the one they’d rented in Argentina, but not nearly as ostentatious as the others around it.

Their true intentions are to find just where the Man’s _Caspartina_ is located. Raven splits off to do reconnaissance, and Charles walks up and down the boardwalk, skimming people’s minds to see if they know of the boat, or if they’ve seen a certain handsome stranger recently.

While he’s out, he tries to think of exactly what to say, when they find Erik. How he’ll explain himself, following him when Erik had made every notion that is the opposite of what he desires. Blessedly, he doesn't need to dwell on it for long: Raven strikes pay dirt towards the end of the day, and they reconnect at sunset over dinner.

“We’re like, an hour out from it,” Raven says, patting the nautical map. “I made a call for a docking space, they say there’s room for a boat this size.

“Anything else?”

“The space is rented out to someone named Aran Mikhailov,” Raven says. “The name kinda sticks out in _this_ climate, so I doubt that’s the name of the man Erik’s looking for.”

“Might be someone who works for him,” Charles says, growing uneasy. “So that means this man isn’t going to be alone.”

“Let’s pull up anchor,” Raven says, standing. “ _Now._ ”

The ride is tense one. The boat, one of the newest on the market, doesn’t seem to be going fast enough. Charles finds himself missing the cramped boat from before, of seeing Erik relax in the sitting room reading or listening to music. The way he’d looked on the bungalow deck. The warmth of his hand.

They make it to the marina with good time, right at sunset. Their rented spot is in an awkward place. For a last minute arrangement, they could do worse.

Something shifts in the air. Waves rock against their boat, when they had been still before.

Raven finishes securing the anchor, then she’s gone, immediately on guard. She makes it to the top of the yacht, and Charles slips into her mind, seeing through her eyes. While he cannot comprehend some of the details she’s able to perceive, it is not as strange as it once was after years of practice. Sewage and fishy smells become strong and unpleasant to Charles, but they’re not so to Raven. She’s looking for the scent for motor oil, any active boats in the bay.

 _Caspartina_. She mouths the word as Charles thinks it. He gives her the image he’d pulled from Erik’s mind. The face of the man in the middle of the picture is still blurred: Erik hadn’t been able to bear to see him. That is Him, the Man Erik’s come for. The one he plans to confront, and die in the process.

Just at the edge of Raven’s range, they see it together: a luxurious, overstuffed thing, three times the size of their own yacht. Maybe four. The rocking they feel seems to be coming from there.

 _Caspartina_ , Raven says. _What does that even_ mean? _Caspar is one of the Magi, isn't he? Gaspar, whatever._

 _Rather ostentatious, don’t you think?_ Charles replies _. I think it just sounds like something a man who fancies himself well-read to have made up, like Shakespeare._

 _Nobody's the Bard, baby,_ Raven thinks. _Especially this asshole._

She shifts, and he feels his own extremities tingle as her hands and feet grow barbs, far more suited for scaling down the deck. Charles slips out of her mind with a shake of his head.

"Should we let out a bit more?" he asks her.

"I don't think we could approach without being seen or heard," Raven says, rippling into her dark bodysuit, otherwise human, just in case. "Unless we do it from the other side of the marina."

"Then that’s what we’ll do," Charles says. He strips out of of his shirt and slacks, leaving him in his own skin-tight suit.

They swim to the far dock, then take to the pier. They weave through late evening revelers undetected, with Charles hardly needing to use his powers. They’ve honed their spy games for seven years now, and each time it’s thrilling, terrifying. Never have they taken for granted their powers, and had early-on focused on what they could manage on their own.

Charles had never been so fine-tuned until Raven had arrived. Raven, who let him into her mind and had shown him how she focuses on parts of her body to shift. _One finger at a time_ , she’d said. The theory works for Charles in its own way. He keeps two fingers at his temple when using his power, reminding him that if he needs to stop to brace himself or let his hand drop, he’s using too much power, and must reassess.

When someone decides to turn to the soft scrabble of noise behind them, it costs hardly a thought to turn his head again towards his friends. When they reach their destination, they stop to regroup. Charles is not quite out of breath but does need a rest, and so he tucks himself near a post to gather himself.

"Anything?" Charles asks, and Raven's true eyes reveal themselves, refracting the light from beyond.

Raven hums, tilting her head, calculating. "I see her, she's not too far away. You ready for some swimming?"

“Of course I am.” Charles grins and stands, raking a hand through his hair. He checks his water shoes and their grips, hoping that they're ready to be tested.

He holds his hand out to his sister. "Trespass with me, my dear?"

Raven takes his wrist, baring her white teeth. "I thought you'd never ask."

She hauls him up and over the side without effort. They take to the rails, stooping to keep their heads out of sight from any possible security scanning the decks for thieves. They make it to the curved bow and climb up, shielded from the shore by the cabin.

 _Cover me_ , he thinks. _I'll see if he's on the ship --_

He opens his mind and,

_Dieses Mal nicht!_

Charles feels as the water surges around Erik, pressure constricting his heaving chest. He's not _on_ the ship. He's in front of it. This needs all Charles's concentration. He goes down to one knee to brace himself to keep a hand on Erik, to read the static of his mind, and he

_shivers in a half-unzipped suit, because He’d just taken what he Wanted, but I’m Awake now I’m awake, this is over, it’s finally going to Be Right again, didn’t you say I was your Good Boy, I’ll show you how Good_

“Oh, God,” Charles says, feeling his gorge rise. His arms feel useless when he returns to his body, aching with a power not his own. Erik is exhausting himself, like he's fighting a riptide.

“Charles,” Raven says, holding his shoulders. “Charles, what’s going on?”

“I need to get control of him, but --” Erik’s mind is caving with a despair so deep, Charles knows he won’t be able to rescue him from here. “I need to get closer, now.”

Raven opens her mouth, but whatever she says is drowned out by an unearthly groan. It twists up Charles’s spine, a new nausea of fear, the oldest part of his brain warning him of predators greater than he.

It’s all the boats in the marina. They’re being pulled in their moors towards one focal point, then shoved back, and pulled again. The waves come with them, surging with such violence that Raven and Charles nearly topple from their perch.

"Fuck!" Raven says, grasping Charles to keep him from going over, rippling blue with anxiety. "What the _hell_ \--"

The wave churns towards the _Caspartina_ , breaking at its hull, nearly knocking it over.

“It’s him,” Charles says, gripping Raven’s arm tightly. “He doesn’t have the strength to do that again, but he’ll damn well try. Raven -- can you swim to our boat?”

“What?” Raven stares at him. “Of course _I_ can, but you can’t --”

“No, but I can swim to _him._ "

The disturbance now has every floodlight in the marina trained towards the _Caspartina._ Erik is easy to see, a single dark spot against the yacht’s hull and the breaking waves. Charles may be aching, but adrenaline is coursing through him now. Purpose.

He and Raven take to their course. Raven transforms once she hits the water, a ripple of matching blue, and Charles takes one heavy deep breath, sights the water below him, and jumps.

When he emerges from breath, he finds himself beneath a strangely shaped shadow, feels a breeze that hadn’t been there before. Then he looks up to see a giant anchor rising from the water like the World Serpent summoned, its great forked head twisting upwards and slamming into the _Caspartina_ ’s cabin.

Raven’s bond flickers with alarm. _I’m all right!_ Charles tells her, though he barely misses being struck by the splintered boards hurtling from the damaged yacht. He sees Erik stare into the water, his eyes wide with surprise at something he sees. He lets out a strangled noise of fury, heard even in the chaos he’s wrought in the bay, and the anchor rises again to split the yacht down the middle.

Charles does not relish touching Erik’s mind, but he must.

 _Raven, I have to go in. He’s going to bloody drown himself_.

 _I just got the anchor up_ , Raven thinks _._

 _Thank God. I'm in sight, can you see us?_ Charles makes a brief wave.

 _Sort of._ He can feel Raven grimace. _Look, I’ll find you, just do what you have to do. And be_ careful _, who knows what he’ll do next._

_I'll do my best._

_Your best better mean_ 'not dead' _._

Charles dives under the next wave as the anchor crashes into the water. There’s a ripping noise in the water and Charles chances to open his eyes to the stinging salt water. A submarine launches forth from the _Caspartina’s_ battered carapace.

Erik’s thrill of alarm is something that hits Charles without him having to Reach, and it leads Charles to his position. Charles takes to the surface again, wiping his eyes quickly to get his bearings. Erik is there barely a meter front of him, his body rigid, his back muscles strained. There is a terrible sound beneath the water, like squealing tires, multiplied a thousand times.

He’s trying to pull the submarine _back_.

Charles Reaches into Erik’s mind, opening himself to the panic and anguish beneath the hollow calm. It hits as surely as a physical blow, and he feels Erik’s burning lungs, the bone-deep ache, his panicked heart. He hears a boy cry out amid the static as a shot rings out, and then _he’s on his knees on the boat with his swimming tunic unzipped to his thighs, and he will Obey, because that’s all he Knows, and a hand grips his hair tight and He says,_ Good Boy

Charles’s resolve fails at the last memory, tether breaking. He comes back to his body with distress all his own.

“Erik!” he shouts. Erik doesn’t budge. He’s still trying to pull a thousand tons of metal towards him. Even Charles knows he’s not strong enough to do such a thing when fully rested. He certainly can’t do it now.

“Erik! Stop!” Erik doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s deaf to anything but the metal crush of his impossible task, and Charles must close the distance between them at last.

 _You can’t do this, Erik_ , Charles thinks at him, grasping at the man’s middle. _You_ can’t _, Erik, you’re not strong enough. You’ll die. You’ll die, and who will fight Him then?_

Erik doesn’t respond. His body and outstretched arms are rictus-straight. His eyes, unseeing, unblinking, are open wide in the coarse water. He thinks of nothing else, a blank static now with no language or soul.

There’s no way Charles can push against the undertow being created by the submarine fighting Erik’s waning power. He can’t go up for breath without losing Erik to the deep. There is only one way to save Erik’s life and his own, and likely everyone in the marina.

Charles slips in Erik's mind. He feels his own arms around himself, divided as he is now, and forces Erik to sleep. Erik goes slack, and Charles manages to break the surface before his lungs burn to bursting.

The bay is a mass of noise, light, confusion, fear. Charles prays no one has seen him and Erik. He hooks his arm around Erik’s chest and swims towards where he feels Raven’s signature.

 _Raven, I'll need your real strength_ , Charles thinks, dragging Erik towards the starboard side of the boat. _Are you hidden here?_

_Yes, hold on._

One blue hand reaches down for Erik's collar, like the night sky herself raising Erik from the frigid water. Charles takes his time climbing up the side, needing to rest here and there, his entire body singing with future cramps and bruising.

"I'll steer to shore," Raven says, transforming into her human form. She looks down at Erik, worry etched on her face. "I -- he's not well, is he?"

"No," Charles says, the word barely voiced.

He tugs Erik to the shadow of the main cabin, pushing aside deck chairs and empty boxes. Charles checks the man’s vitals. His heart is beating. He is breathing. He's shivering in response to the cold.

When Charles touches his mind, Erik’s signature is weak, the red of it even dimmer than it’d been in Argentina.

 _No, no, no_ , Charles thinks, grasping for the whispering notion of his spirit. _No, don’t leave. Erik. you can’t!_

Erik does not respond. His lips part. His limbs begin to go slack. A body is nothing without its soul.

 _Come back. You're needed here_ , Charles thinks, rubbing Erik’s chest beneath his suit to try and warm him. He pushes through to tug on the warm red strands that will pull Erik back to him.

Then, there’s the distant feeling of recognition. Annoyance, even. A wavering image of Charles speaking, Erik’s wounded pride, Charles on his knees with the knife at his throat, fearful but bright-eyed, stubborn --

_Yes, that's me, I'm here. Hate me for doing this, please. Feel something -- anything -- please!_

The boat shifts beneath them violently. Erik's head jostles in his lap, lolling limply to the side.

"No," Charles says, bowing over him to touch his forehead to Erik's, weeping as if he is losing his lover, not a man he barely knows. "You _can't go_. You can't _do_ this, Erik, _please_ \--"

Charles’s sobbing rids him of his voice. Yet he hears himself say,

**You're sure I can't convince you to stay?**

He has no idea what to do, or how to draw Erik back from the abyss. He remembers the vision he'd had in Nassau, how warm Erik was, alive beneath Charles's hands, his lips --

Charles cups Erik’s face and kisses him.

_Don't leave, Erik, please, He doesn't deserve your death —_

**I told you from the moment I met you, there's more to you, Erik.**

I accept you for who you are.

_You have so much more to give —_

_**You abandoned me!** _

However vicious you may be.

_You're supposed to be here, with us —_

**I'm _never_ getting inside of that head again. **

I won’t look away. I won’t flinch.

_With me, Erik —_

**No, Erik! Don’t _do_ this!**

I know what it means to love you.

**You belong here with me!**

Erik mouth drops open. He gasps as if he's just broken the surface of the water.

Charles cries out in relief. He manages to gather himself enough to turn Erik over, to slaps him hard on the back. Erik vomits seawater, coughing deeply and painfully. But he’s _alive._

“He’s okay?” Raven calls out from the wheel.

“Yes, yes!” Charles exclaims. “He's waking up!"

“ _Was ist_ …?” Erik's eyes flutter open with all the shouting, lashes stark against his pale skin, separated by the water. He's so cold his teeth chatter as he tries to form words, and fails.

“It’s me,” Charles says, patting Erik’s face and smoothing down his hair, heedless of the boundaries of intimacy.

Erik seems to recognize him. He doesn’t look annoyed, or disappointed. Surprised.

He mouths: "Charles?"

“Yes,” Charles says, bowing to put them nose-to-nose, weeping. Whatever the future may or may not hold for them, this moment is enough. “Erik. Erik. Thank you. Thank you for coming back to me.”

-xxx-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted a NSFW scene set after the porch scene in the Bahamas! You can find that here: [WTW Part One Chapter 7.25](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817947/chapters/36822612)


	8. Part One - Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I don’t think I’m in love with him_ , Charles says to himself while he takes to the stairs again. _I think I’m in love with the_ idea _of him. Of danger, adventure, and saving beautiful men from terrible fates. Life isn’t a storybook._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Warnings: Discussion of rape/sexual abuse.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I know this one ends on a fairly sharp note, but don't worry. Happy endings take time.

> _"A good morning, ma'am. Your early morning call."_

Charles? You with me?

_Yes, of course._

Are you _sure?_

_Why? Do you need me for something?_

No, it's nothing like that.

_Am I even in my own body?_

I mean, I think. You're breathing. You're talking to me.

_What about Erik?_

Do you really need to worry about that _now?_

_Yes! Tell me. Please, Raven._

He’s fine. He’s breathing. Just really bruised up.

_Is -- he's hurt, elsewhere, he needs --_

I know. I cleaned him up.

_I think it’s best it was you. Even if I could have..._

Yeah, I think that too.

_Raven?_

Yes?

_I just remembered more of that dream.  
_

Which one?

_The one I had when I was a boy. The one where I die._

What’d you see this time? Anything more?

_Yes. You were there._

Great, great. Glad to know I outlive you.

_It’s not that bad. It’s a nice dream._

Says you. Look, it won’t matter if you don’t stop pushing yourself and you die now.

_I suppose._

Suppose yourself back to bed.

-xxx-

Charles doesn’t recall how he and Raven had moved Erik to the cabin of the yacht. He remembers bruises, exhaustion. The blur of fitful sleep, old dreams, and Raven’s voice. Staggering trips to the head like he’s sleepwalking. Metallic water, watery soup. When he’s finally aware of his surroundings, he seeks out Raven.

She’s at the highest point of the ship. Charles can’t imagine making the stairs without food and coffee, so he shouts: “I’m still alive, do you need anything?”

 _Can’t you use this?_ Raven thinks at him.

“I guess I forgot I’m psychic!”

“I guess I forgot you're stupid!”

Charles grins to himself and hobbles down to the galley, clanking around. He fills up on graham crackers -- when did they purchase those? -- and coffee seems to take forever, but when it’s made the smell makes him feel a little more human.

He goes very slow up to the navigation deck. Raven is by the wheel in sunglasses and a day dress. After having pulled double shifts, she almost looks tired.

“Now how’d you get up here without falling?” Raven asks, lifting her sunglasses.

“Sororal love,” Charles replies. “Just coursing through my veins. Bringing me strength.”

“I’m worth the devotion,” Raven says, taking the coffee. They sip in silence for a bit, Charles enjoying the breeze and the shade from the topmost deck.

Raven finishes her drink, closing her eyes briefly. “Oh man, that tasted amazing.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been alone up here,” Charles says. “I know you’ve barely had time to yourself.”

“Hey, it’s been exciting,” Rave says. “I like knowing how tough I am, though, tell me more.”

Charles reaches over to grab her hand and squeezes it.

“Darling,” he says, “thank you. Truly. I know you want to take care of one of our kind, but this was -- is -- my mad chase, and you’ve done nothing but be brilliant through it all.”

Raven flushes. She’s a person who enjoys being flattered, of course. But honest sentiment outside of critical situations leaves her embarrassed. “You’re just trying to butter me up. What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Charles says, grinning. He’s making it worse. “I wanted to say just how crazy-cool you are, Raven, for doing all this for me, and a stranger.”

Raven squeezes his hand back, and says, with painful honesty, “I know what it’s like to need somewhere to go. He’s just more stubborn than me.”

Charles reaches over to push her bangs from her forehead. “And that is quite a task, isn’t it?”

“We’re all stubborn on this boat,” Raven says. “We’re survivors.”

It’s not a word Charles often thinks of in terms of himself. Yet there _are_ things he’s survived that no-one knows but Raven. There are also things that she does not know.

That line of thought brings him, uncomfortably, to something he had not wanted to ask about Erik’s condition.

“He was,” Charles finds the words difficult, “in need of some delicate care, cleaning.”

Raven’s expression shifts. “Yes. I told you I’d done it, but you were barely in your own brain.”

“I think I remember that conversation,” Charles says, scratching his chin.

“Was it the Man?” Raven asks.

“Yes,” Charles says, hunching forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and hands rung. “I felt it, heard it. He had come in to fight the man and instead fell into his bed, though it wasn’t what he wanted, not by a long shot. Kept defiantly repeating that he’d show Him a ‘Good Boy’.”

Raven recoils into her seat. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Yes,” Charles says, looking at his knuckles, which are scuffed and scraped. His mind, though, is surprisingly clear and not at all swollen as it’d been in Argentina. “It was… he was despairing so much, I almost lost him, Raven. His body was alive but his soul was -- leaving.”

“Oh, baby,” Raven says, reaching out to put her hand on his. Charles lifts it to touch his forehead, like he was paying obeisance to a queen.

“I,” Charles stammers, as if prompted at a confessional, “I kissed him, Raven.”

Raven, who had immediately taken to petting his hair, stops to stare at him. “You did?”

There’s no judgement in her words, which he’s grateful for. He’s already judging himself.

“I feel awful,” he says. “You’re not supposed to kiss someone who can’t kiss back --”

“Well,” Raven asks, practical, “ _why_ did you do it?”

He feels his face burn. “Because I -- I thought of that vision I had. How happy he’d been in it, when we’d been kissing. And I thought -- maybe, maybe I could convey that to him.”

It sounds absurd. Raven doesn't respond as if it is. She just pets his hair again.

“I think he’d forgive you for pulling a Prince Charming,” she says. “He was the one dying, after all.”

“I just didn’t want him to die,” Charles says, voice cracking now. Something fragile breaks within him, even more than his breakdown in Argentina. “I don’t know _why._ I don’t even know him. Raven, I think I’m falling in love with him.”

“Oh, Charles,” Raven says. He’s crying freely, and she resettles herself next to him in his chair, wrapping her arms around him.

“I can’t do it,” he says. “I’ve got to just -- he might not even stay. I have to stop it from getting worse.”

“Why?” Raven says. “Why do you want to stop it?”

“Because he’d never love me back,” Charles says. “Not just because I’m a man. I’m fairly sure he’s going to hate me when he wakes up for -- stopping him dying, I don’t know.”

“Why are you so damned fatalistic?” Raven murmurs, rocking him slightly. “You are deciding a lot of things before lunch. If he hates you it’s because he’s going to be scared out of his mind. He’s going to be afraid, and will want to lash out at you.”

Times like this, Charles is reminded that Raven must be much older than him, even if she’ll never look it.

“You need to be patient with him,” Raven says, cupping his face in her hands. “I think you two were hitting it off just fine before he went on his suicide mission.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. And,” Raven continues, leaning back and wiping at his face, “even if he doesn’t love you like that, you’ll charm him eventually. You do that to everyone, you nosy little jerk.”

“Ha,” Charles says. He composes himself, blowing his nose on a napkin.

“Why don’t you go check on Erik now?” Raven says, gesturing to the stairwell. “Bring him some coffee or something, wake him up, help him to the head. Try not to be too fussy.”

“Fussy is, unfortunately, my default state of being, my love,” Charles says. He stands, inhaling through his swollen nostrils. “All right. Where is he?”

“The entertainment deck,” Raven says. “He’s all legs, after all.”

Charles goes to the galley to fix Erik some coffee and puts some saltines and graham crackers on a plate, arranging them. He remembers the pastry that’d gone uneaten in Nassau when he’d discovered Erik’s disappearance.

 _I don’t think I’m in love with him_ , Charles says to himself while he takes to the stairs again. _I think I’m in love with the_ idea _of him. Of danger, adventure, and saving beautiful men from terrible fates. Life isn’t a storybook._

He’s old hand at suppressing things. Mostly.

Charles knocks at the door to the room, then opens it. If Erik’s awake, he’ll appreciate the warning. If he’s asleep, well, he needs to wake up.

“I’m coming in!” Charles exclaims after a pause, them bumps the door open with his rear and walks in.

Erik is awake. He’s sitting up on the couch. He’s shirtless, and his wound has been freshly bandaged in the past few hours -- Raven, of course -- red blood and brown. He doesn’t look at Charles at all, his eyes forward, dark in the absence of ambient light. It’s hazy, too: he has a cigarette, hand against his knee. It’s mostly ash now. It gives the room an eerie feeling, like a rocky shore at night, covered in dense fog. One you cannot walk to far along, without the possibility of missing a step and falling, drowning.

Charles turns on one of the lights on the opposite side of the cabin, to not deluge Erik in stark lighting. He gets a good look at Erik, who had looked much healthier and hale when Charles had pulled him from the goat pen in comparison to his pallor now.

“Hi, Erik,” Charles says, setting down the tray. “I brought you some things to eat. It’s very simple, but I’m not sure where you’re stomach’s at.”

“Why thank you, Charles,” Erik says.

There is an edge to his voice that Charles certainly does not like. “How are you feeling?”

“What does it matter?”

Charles frowns. “You’re hurt, Erik. You nearly drowned, exhausted most of your power. I’d just like to know.”

“I’m adrift on an unfamiliar boat,” Erik begins, “with a bleeding side and no change of clothes for my trouble. I’m completely at your mercy. I suppose you know how I feel about that?”

“I -- can imagine,” Charles says.

“You’re not _telling_ me how I feel? Amazing.”

“Look, when we get to shore, we can get you new clothes,” Charles says, trying to follow Raven’s advice. _He’s mad, clearly. I can handle a little sniping_. “And we can find a way to retrieve your luggage, too.”

“Fantastic,” Erik says. He picks up a graham cracker and snaps it in two. He doesn’t eat it. He sets it down on the plate as if he’s made a point.

“Do you --” Charles licks his lips. “Do you need anything else? I could get you some real food.”

“Oh, no,” Erik says. “I’ll make do with this. Unless you know better, since you’re clearly aware of everything I need right now.”

“Erik!” Charles exclaims. “I’m not trying to -- how is it a leap of logic to say you’re tired after everything? Thank you might need help? That you’re bloody _hungry?_ ”

“You’re right. I really should be thanking you,” Erik says. “Truly, you’re treating your new pet very kindly.”

Charles scowls. “You’re not my _pet_ , Erik. Where are you getting this?”

“Then why, exactly, are you trying to convince me to go from this bloody cage to another?”

“Cage? This isn’t a cage!”

“I can’t get out of it, can I?” Erik says, tilting his head. “You’ve already said you’ll be getting me new clothes when we dock, that you’ll be retrieving my personal effects. I’ll need to stick around long enough to get them. Then I’m sure you’ll find some other way to force me by your side.”

“It’s your best choice,” Charles stresses. “You need those things. You can decide later what you want, but for now, you need shelter--”

“Decide later? Do you hear yourself?”

Charles finds himself at some sudden incline, ill-prepared to scale it. “I just mean to say you have --”

“Your choices aren’t _choices_ , Charles,” Erik says. He’s smiling, his voice is deep poison. “No matter your reasoning, you’re holding me captive. I don’t see how you in good conscience have a right to say anything to me about choice.”

Charles says, “You must do the best thing for yourself. You’ve got to heal your body, don’t you? You’ll die if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“What if I _want_ to?”

Erik has been violated by the Man he’d hunted down. It had nearly mortified him so greatly his soul had escaped him. Of course he can’t shake the emptiness so quickly.

“You don’t want to live?” Charles says, folding his arms. “Is that it? Really?”

Erik laughs, an ugly thing, then takes a deep drag of his cigarette.

“Is that not the answer you wanted, Lord Xavier?” he says, with the veneer of calm now. “My sincere apologies. I’ll make something up in a moment.”

“You don’t have to make something up,” Charles says.

“I’ll need to placate you somehow.”

“You’re just bluffing,” Charles says, tilting his chin up. “You’ve got unfinished business.”

Erik's demeanor changes abruptly. There's the scorn and fury from the time he'd been laid low in Argentina, multiplied a thousand times.

“ _How many times_ do I need to infer this?" The words through gritted teeth. "I thought you were of some great, advanced intellect, Charles. I’ll spell it out: _I don’t want your help._ ”

Charles, startled by Erik's sudden outburst, can no longer remain patient. The words burst out of him:

“ _Why don’t you want someone to save you?_ ”

Erik stares at him. Then he laughs again. The malice doesn't leave him.

“What I want has _nothing_ to do with you,” he says. “You don’t _know_ me, boy.”

“I know that you hate yourself right now more than anything,” Charles says, feeling on the edge of mania, “and you’re not thinking straight!”

“And here I thought you didn’t just get in people’s heads.”

“I don’t need to do that to know how you feel,” Charles snaps. “It’s written all over you. It’s practically bleeding from you. Like the wound you nearly tore open. How many stitches did you pull? You’re going to need my help again, I’m sure.”

Erik straightens up, despite the pain it causes him. “How long are you going to stand there and presume my needs? What, do you think we’re _friends?_ ”

That is more jarring that Erik's snarling at him. Charles flushes to his throat, his skin feeling hot, prickling with embarrassment. “I thought,” Charles stammers, feeling as if something is slipping away from him at last, like the threads of Erik’s consciousness only nights ago. “I thought you -- and I -- on the trip, in the Bahamas --”

“Oh, _that,_ ” Erik says. He stubs out the cigarette into the ashtray, leaning forward, like they’re having a business meeting. “I was only giving you what you thought was your due, so we’d be even. I see I didn’t do enough.”

Charles's eyes widened. “Exactly _what_ do you mean by that?”

“I owe you for saving my life. Twice now?” Erik says. He touches his neck, near the dip between his collarbone. “Well, I’ll have to go a bit further with you to repay you for this one. A bit of a shame.”

It’s taken Charles this long to realize the innuendo in Erik’s words. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“I could always rub myself on the polo I left you,” Erik says, his marble-carved mouth pursing. He's found purchase. “Would that be enough? I do need something to wear for a while, it’d just get a little stained again, so there’s that.

“Or would you rather I rub on _you?_ That might not be _too_ distasteful. It’s not like you’re ugly.”

Charles’s mouth drops open. “How _dare_ you,” he breathes.

“I dare,” Erik says, smiling now with his sharp teeth. “Because I know you’re just like all the other rich boys, no matter how hard you try. People owe you for your gracious assistance, even when it’s not desired.”

“ _I don’t want to bloody rape you!_ ”

There’s a terrible silence. Charles can hear Erik’s breathing, see him sweating. He’s pushing himself to even be awake.

“You _do_ want me,” Erik says.

“I haven’t tried to hide it,” Charles says, his nails digging into his fists. He’s found some high ground and he scrambles to it. “I think it’s been obvious since Brussels. I’ve done nothing more than mooning at something I can’t have. You haven’t seemed bothered about it. Until now, I suppose. I’m not the _only_ one presuming things.”

Erik rolls his shoulders, snorting like a bull. His color is high. He’s not sure what to do with Charles volleying back his sharpest blow. He knows Charles isn’t going to give him the fight he desperately wants.

“Let me suppose you your next steps, then,” Charles says. “You’ve no place to go, we both know that. You’ve been sloppy with those last few kills, before Leiden,” and Erik tries to say something, but Charles barges on, “and you know you have, don’t try and lie. You need to lie low at least a while long. And no-one’s going to think you’ll be at some _little rich boy’s_ estate. You can avoid me all you like there, it’s a rather large place.

“And since I doubt you’ll rest easy until I tell you this, I’ve thought of what you owe me.”

Erik stares at Charles.

“You let your body heal,” Charles says. “You let me prod at you later today to see what stitches you’ve slipped. I’ll call a doctor when we get to shore. You stay in the estate until your stitches are out and you can move without pain. Then you can _decide_ to disappear, if you want.”

"I can't --" Erik begins, and bites that reply off. He looks heavily at his hands, calming his breathing. " _Fine._ "

"Good," Charles says. "Eat that. We worry about your stitches later. We’ll be in Newark in about two days.”

He wants to add something snide -- _if you can stand me that long,_ or, _if you think your virtue will stay intact_ \-- but he doesn't. Especially not the latter. He even finds restraint not to slam the door behind him.

Charles _knows_ what's primed Erik to think the things he's accused Charles of wanting from him, and it'd be unfair, no, _ugly_ of Charles to take advantage of that for one more volley. Besides, he’d had the last word.

Erik brings out the strangest things in him, and losing his temper like that --

No, he’ll leave Erik alone unless there’s things the man needs. He’s done trying to convince Erik that he’s going to a safe haven, not another cage. It’ll not be met with good will at all. Charles hopes he can salvage something civil between them before landfall, though. It’s got to be possible.

There’s still that strange burn in his chest, not dissipating as his anger and frustration ebb. It’s this helpless desire to keep Erik safe and by Charles’s side. It’s not infatuation. It’s a helpless feeling, to strive for something that seems impossible now.

It won’t stop Charles from trying.

-xxx-

###  **END WAKING THE WITCH: PART ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my wife, Shoi, for helping me with Erik's quirks and help blocking out this scene. It wouldn't be as brutal without you! ;)
> 
> And, as always, the folks who kudos and comment, and the lovely Cherik fandom who's just adopted me right away. ♥ Love you guys!!


	9. INTERLUDE I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You must swear to me, when you find a new purpose -- and you will, I know you, noble creature -- be wary of giving your heart to a good man." She touches his chin with a long nail, her green eyes sad and fond. "It will ruin you for all else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the mysterious Lady, who I used in place of Emma Frost, as I wanted Emma in a later generation. While her moniker is Lady Laufey, Erik has always just called her Lady and thinks of her as such. She's definitely someone else. As much as I'd like to keep it a complete secret until you read it, I feel the need to add the pairing she's a part of. There's a lot of discussion about it as a kink lately, which is understandable, but this is not the case with this particular pairing for me! The “Waking the Witch” AU is part of a larger Marvel universe, though adding more characters will take time. It’s still mutants all the way down. 
> 
> **Additional Warnings** : Discussion of child abuse/sexual abuse.  
>  **Additional Pairings Mentioned** : Implied Thor/Loki -- betrothals and children and a metric ton of pining.

> _"Tiefer, tiefer._  
>  _Irgendwo in der Tiefe_  
>  _Gibt es ein licht."_

Erik is dismissed from his training much earlier than usual. Azazel has returned and he must speak with Shaw about his mission. For Erik, it is a reprieve. Shaw is in a wretched mood today and has been taking it out on him. He worries for Azazel, but must take care of himself.

He heads to his rooms to shove the Coin beneath his mattress. He hates looking at it, feeling it, but Shaw insists on using it. To remind Erik of how he’d failed. He combs his hair and puts on a clean shirt, then heads to the kitchens. He waits for the servants to fix a tray for him, and then heads to the study for lunch and lessons.

The Lady is draped on the couch when he arrives. She is a thick green gown, her white legs folded at the ankles. Her hair, coal-black and voluminous, is pulled up in a braided bun. Some of her braids and curls have fallen to frame her pale face. All this is accentuated by the gold she wears: golden thread, gold charms and chains, rings and bangles.

Even relaxed, Erik sees what others must see: an imposing, regal woman. When Lady stands at Shaw’s side, people take notice of her, even men with no taste for women. Erik has wondered if she had been a noblewoman stripped of her titles by the Nazis.

To Erik, she a sign of comfort.

“Erik!” Lady sits up, closing her book. “You’re early.”

“Good afternoon, Lady,” Erik says, in very careful English. “I have brought lunch.”

“Why, thank you,” Lady says. She gestures. “Come, sit. Let’s eat, have some wine, and you can tell me all about your day.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her English is always a bit fast, but he understands her. He sets the tray down and goes to pick up the open bottle of wine from the nearby desk. He tops off her goblet, then pours his own. She picks up the goblet, her rings clicking against the silvery metal and porcelain. It’s worked in relief with snakes, wolves, and mistletoe.

“I shall start with my day,” Lady says. He eats while he listens. Sometimes she asks him questions about what he’s learned, and he answers. She corrects his accent, which he’s asked her to do. Then it’s his turn to recount his day, from waking and bathing to his lessons with Shaw.

There are things he does not tell her about being around Shaw. At least today he does not have to lie.

After the reports are over, they speak about the next few days, Erik in German and Lady in English. The servants come to clear their tray away, and Lady follows to fetch clean water. Her green skirts drag on the stone floor where the rugs don’t cover. Though her necklines are always very low, she chooses velvet year-round, as if she is always cold.

Erik drinks water from a pewter cup, watching her as she settles on the couch again. She is restless today, her tells obvious to him.

She wears one piece of jewelry incongruous to the rest of her finery: a simple metal-worked pendant shaped somewhat like a boat’s anchor. It’s fitted on a very long string of leather that disappears between her breasts. She pulls it out to admire it now, running her fingers over old scratches on the surface. She tries to keep it from Shaw at all costs.

Erik Reaches to try and make sense of it. He’s never tried before. It hums differently than anything he’s Touched. It isn’t iron or silver or steel, but what it is exactly, he cannot say.

“What is that, Lady?” Erik asks, feeling bold enough today to ask. He knows she will forgive him his curiosity. Lady looks up, green eyes surprised.

“It’s my locket,” she says. “A gift from Master Shaw. I thought you knew. Isn’t it pretty? I’m told the emerald is even real.”

Erik frowns. There is no emerald, nothing that sparkles or shines, save the places where her worrying the metal has rendered it smooth.

“I – Lady, please don’t lie to me,” Erik murmurs. “I can see it for what it is.”

"Oh," she says. “I should have known it didn’t work on you.”

“What doesn’t?”

“The glamour.”

Erik’s face burns. He wasn’t meant to see it. “I suppose if the glamour is made of metal…”

"It's meant to look different. Like with Azazel's onyx earring, the one set with steel," Lady says. "You still see him when he wears it, don't you, when everyone else sees a man. Goodness, I'd never thought."

"I never thought he was hiding," Erik says. "But I don't often get to go out, Lady, you know this.”

"It itches him, do you know?" Lady says. "I couldn't imagine it, if I suddenly didn't have half my balance, what with missing a tail. It's why he doesn't wear it unless he must."

"You made it for him, then?” Erik says.

"Yes, I did," Lady says. "That's one of my powers, you know. Making those sorts of things."

She does have great powers: illusion, memory-reading, drawing truths out of lies. She is a jewel in Shaw’s crown, and is wielded as Erik is. A weapon of immense power, and treated poorly. For all this, Erik hadn’t known her power extended to enchantments. That seems more magical than mutant.

"Why make something like this, though?" Erik asks. "It's nice, but -- you like _matching_ your baubles, Lady. You're very vain."

Lady laughs, tilting her head back now. "Oh! You precocious thing,” she says.

He frowns, not understanding the word.

She says, "You're cheeky.”

That word he knows. He gives her a little smile.

"I'm just stating the obvious, Lady,” he says.

“You’d like to see it, then?” Lady asks.

“If it’s all right.”

She hesitates, then takes off her token and hands it to him. The metal is cool, though it has been against her skin as if frost-touched. It is nothing like Erik has Felt before. He tries to Move the thing, and it hovers slightly in his palms.

"This is Thor's hammer, Mjolnir. It's a token of his favor and protection," she says. "The real thing lifts only for those who are worthy of the power of Thor.” She smiles as he spins it over his knuckles. “Looks like you a worthy then, little boar.”

Erik dips his head. "I don't know about that," he says quietly.

"I am _quite_ capable of making that distinction, thank you very much," Lady says.

Erik rests the pendant in his palm. The runes on it are oddly familiar. He frowns as he recognizes a few, ones he's seen used by vile men.

Lady notices his hesitation. “Yes, that's what you see, but make no mistake: it's not theirs to take, though they think they deserve it. Something about their great white and blond lineage, ha! It's appalling. These are _letters_. They're very old."

"What does it say?" Erik asks.

Lady reaches over and puts his finger on each rune in turn. Some are so worn that only her recall remains. Erik hears words in his head, first in their original tongue, resolving into his own language: _'He who bears this token has the protection of the Mighty Thor.'_

"Simple enough," Lady says. She takes it back in her hands as she moves away, cupping it like an injured bird. When she speaks, she sounds as if she’s in pain.

"He protects all kinds of people, gives his blessings for marriage and family,” she says. “He makes hallow what has been desecrated."

Erik's vocabulary has come short again. "What does that mean?"

Lady chooses her words carefully. “He makes whole what was once disturbed or broken. Holy what was once made unholy."

Erik goes silent. He stares at his hands. He thinks of Shaw, the coin, the taste of metal and blood after being used in a fight. After being used elsewhere.

"Can he do that to people?”

“In a fashion, yes,” Lady says.

Erik’s hands fist against his knees. ‘You’ve done well today, Erik. Good boy.’

“Lady,” his voice cracks, "could he fix _me?_ "

Lady's brows bow up. “Oh, Erik.” She reaches for him and grasps him close, a hand in his hair. Her skin is cool to the touch, but not unpleasant. It is not unlike how cold his mother's skin felt, when she had held him in --

The last time she had held him, would hold him, ever --

He clings to Lady. All the gold she wears clicks together as she squeezes him while he cries. He can’t recall the last time he’s cried at anything. He can never show weakness, not in front of Him.

"He can, little boar, he can," she says, having switched to German now. "You need but ask him. I believe your God will allow it, don't you think? But Erik. You aren't broken, not at all."

"Then why do I sit and beg Him?" Erik cries out. "Get on my knees when he's angry and plead with him to spare me his wrath? When he takes -- he takes me to -- I don't want it! I hate it! _Why do I do it?_ "

"Shh, shh," Lady says. She rocks him like a mother would. He puts his nose in her shoulder. He inhales the scent of distant pines, snow and ice and wet earth, like the smell of home on the farm. He calms, and tries not to feel guilty. It’s Lady: she won’t tell.

"You aren't broken," Lady repeats. She runs her hand through his hair. She understands his pain; this isn’t pity. “I don’t know what he has on you, like he has on Azazel and me. Your heart is true to yourself, even if your body isn’t. I know what it’s like.”

Erik knows Azazel was one of the boys before him. He wondered what Shaw had taken from him to keep the man at his side. Lady, too. He’s as angry over their captivity as he is his own.

"I'll find out what it is," he declares. He feels a rare form of bravado surge within him. “I’ll save you both one day.”

"You dear thing," she says. She gives Erik a green silk handkerchief to wipe his face. "If given the chance, you would be a king of your own making. Everyone would love you, Erik."

"You would know, wouldn’t you, Lady?”

"I would certainly know," Lady replies, pushing his temple a little. "It's in your name, little boar. _Ever the Ruler._ "

Erik looks at the green handkerchief and the gold thread worked in serpents around its border. A repeating theme with her. It always makes him think of noble heraldry.

"Where do you come from, Lady?" Erik asks. "Are -- are you royalty there?”

“Well, aren’t you full of questions today,” Lady says, indulging him with a wink. “Well, it’s a bit strange. I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

Erik stares at her. " _Lady._ "

“Oh, well, you asked,” Lady says. “Where I am from -- I am a hostage child raised in a foreign land, though I have known no other kingdom as home. When I helped uncover that the king of this land had covered up years of conquest and war, I stole away to devise a plan to usurp him. In doing so, I left behind a woman who is as dear to me as a mother. And the prince I was raised beside… I thought, often, that we would have been betrothed if we were not raised together.”

Lady’s black lashes lower as she speaks of this prince. She turns the pendant around in her hands. She is close to some deep, fragile truth within her. Erik doesn’t speak for fear of frightening her from sharing. He reaches to squeeze her wrist, as if to say, _it’s all right._

“He is one of those golden men,” Lady continues. “A good and kind one, who believes the best in people. Bold, because he thinks they can be encouraged to do the right thing -- the correct thing -- if they are shown a better path. He is a fool, because you know the wickedness of those who do not understand sacrifice and pain. Even those who have suffered atimes turn wicked. All can become terrible: humans, and other mutants, and whatever else. Even I am wicked.”

“Lady, no!” Erik says, squeezing her wrist. “You’re clever. You’re kind when it counts.”

“I’m only kind to you,” Lady says.

“And your prince."

Lady grins. "I'm rarely nice to him."

"But he still gave this to you," Erik says, nodding to the pendant.

“Yes,” Lady says. “For protection.”

Erik asks, “And marriage?”

"Oh, he plays at it," Lady says. "But it cannot be."

"Is he betrothed to another? Or --"

"Father wouldn't allow it," Lady says, sharp.

The way she says 'Father' sounds much the way Erik speaks of Shaw. Fear and awe, and no small amount of pain.

“We were fools all the same. We’d made a wish for children on a wine-drunk night. To have heroes of our past come back to us, through our blood.  But -- when I knew I was with child, I had to escape to preserve our other plans. Father wouldn’t have allowed them to live. I stole away here to have the children, alone. Though we had many fine years together, I had to leave the nest from time to time to retrieve supplies. On one of these trips, Sebastian found me.”

Erik listens, rapt. Lady has not told this story before, so unlike the others he has heard. This one has no polish, no witticisms, no glamour to disguise how painful it is to her.

“Apparently, I owe him something from -- a long time ago, in a life I don’t quite remember.” She sighs. “And I knew the children would be safe at the nest, so -- I followed him willingly, at first. He sows discord and confusion, which I delight in. But soon I found out that his plans are banal, useless -- he only wants power, to gain and rule over people, even his own. I had no way to corrupt that into something I could use. By then, it was too late to free myself, to return.”

She trails off. Erik knows the rest. Lady is here in Shaw’s clutches, beholden to a man that says he wants the world to bow to mutants. He really just wants to the world to bow to him, like Erik and Lady and Azazel must.

"What about your prince?" Erik asks.

"Oh," she says, snorting. "He would charge in and save us all, I'm sure. Perhaps get us into more trouble. It's his way.”

"He sounds wonderful."

"Oh, he's --" Lady laughs, her manicured nails rubbing her temples. "Erik, when you're finally free, I need something from you."

Freedom is only a word to Erik. It’s more fantastical than Lady's stories of kingdoms and forgotten lifetimes and souls reborn. It makes him nervous to even _hear_ it, yet he still yearns for it. "Anything, Lady."

She reaches to touch Erik's hair, picking through his bangs. He leans into her hand. Both of them are missing what they cannot have: her children, his mother. For now, in this terrible place, they have what they need.

"You must swear to me, when you find a new purpose -- and you will, I know you, noble creature -- be wary of giving your heart to a good man." She touches his chin with a long nail, her green eyes sad and fond. "It will ruin you for all else."

> _"Deeper, deeper,_  
>  _Somewhere in the depth_  
>  _There is a light."_


	10. Part Two - Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just beyond the hull an ancient water churns, teeming with life, its salty foam sure to leech the impurities from Erik’s flesh.
> 
> It is older than Shaw is. It is what can take him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Part Two, starting Erik's side of the story! Please feel free to visit my [tumblr](http://tselina.tumblr.com/) for more goodies, like my [photosets](http://tselina.tumblr.com/tagged/wtwedits/chrono) for each chapter. (Some have moving GIFs!) Here's the [master post](http://tselina.tumblr.com/post/177241110570) so far.
> 
> I'm going with a True Neutral/bordering Neutral Good Azazel for this story at large.
> 
> **Additional Warnings : Discussion of abuse and rape with implied underage situations. Allusions to rape. Nothing described explicitly. Please proceed with caution on this one.**

 

> _With just one hand held up high_  
>  _I can blot you out._

-xxx-

Erik recalls the water first, how cold it is. A summer night should not yield to the chill. It must be why he’s shivering. It can’t be fear. There is no room for fear.

He climbs the side of the _Caspartina_. He does not need gloves to secure his hands and feet on the metal rails. All the same, his palms ache when he reaches the deck. His legs feel weak. It must be his wound draining his strength.

He concentrates, searching for the unique frequency of Azazel’s steel earring. Lady may not have followed Shaw here. She hates hot weather. Azazel is permanently by His side, no matter the climate.

Erik hears the subtle reverberation of well-forged steel and the composition of pure onyx stone. He cannot control precious metals, or gems, or minerals, but they react to his power. Each has its own sound, as one would strike a tuning fork. The metal he can control is a sensation he cannot describe to any man, though he has tried. It feels as if a part of him calls out from the very marrow of his bones.

The rear deck is well-lit, rung with lanterns casting yellow-white light. He confuses them briefly with the lights at the Nassau bungalow, the small and trusting creature at his side delighting in his presence. Surely by now Xavier and his sister have noticed his absence. Erik prays they do not follow him, though the chance is slim that they will reach him here.

On the deck are three men. One is Azazel. His true self is naked to Erik’s eye. He is a contrast of bright red color in all the cream and brown, the dark backdrop of the marina. A beautiful youth with black hair and elegant features is speaking with Azazel. He can’t be older than Xavier.

A surge of jealousy tears through Erik’s heart. This is the new Boy.

It’s barely been two years. The bitterness seeps into Erik like the water of his wetsuit, an impermeable layer of dismay. But two years is too long for Shaw to go without a Boy on his arm. He wonders how long Shaw had mourned him, after leaving him to die. He wonders if he could manage six months. Three.

Shaw is at the rail, his back to the cabin and to the other men. He is a man of average height and build. Erik should not be so intimidated. He is stronger than he was two years ago. Taller, faster, wound be damned.

He pulls free his boot-knife. It had been a gift from Lady, one of her own. Its metal sings like nothing else. Erik stalks forward, wondering if he can take down the new Boy before Azazel notices and must react. Before _Shaw_ can react.

It will be useless to try and _threaten_ the Boy, of course. Shaw doesn’t care overmuch about his trinkets, save that they are useful. Erik will either have to put the Boy out of his misery, or incapacitate him.

He is halfway across the deck when Shaw says, in German,

“Little Erik Lehnsherr, what a nice surprise.”

The new Boy looks between Shaw and Erik, his pretty mouth open in confusion. Azazel keeps his eyes forward so as not to watch. Erik can register the dismay on the man’s handsome scarlet face before a gust of wind lifts him and slams him against the cabin’s side.

Stars and sparks fly. His dagger is gone. His breath comes in gasps. His side screams in pain. He lifts his head.

Shaw stands a few meters before him, sloshing his drink idly in his hand. The Boy has twin storms in his fists, now in a fighting stance.

“Janos,” Shaw says, clicking his tongue. He lowers the Boy’s wrist. “We don’t hurt our own kind.”

“I’m sorry,” the Boy says. The whirlwinds disappear as his hands clench. He stands back, his chest heaving.

Shaw paces forward. He towers over Erik.

“My sweet little Erik,” Shaw says, kneeling before him. He reaches out to touch Erik’s face. “It’s so good to see you alive.”

He wants to shout. To say things like: _you left me in that ruin to die, you replaced me, you abandoned me._ But the hand on Erik’s cheek is so _warm._ He leans into it. His shivering stops.

“Janos,” Shaw says. “I’m going to be a while below deck. Could you and Azazel man the ship?”

Erik watches Janos tense. His fine features pinch. He knows what Shaw intends. Janos thinks that his place is at Shaw’s side, in Shaw’s bed, not this outlier. This traitor.

“Yes, sir,” Janos says.

Azazel nods. He can’t bear looking at Erik.

Shaw leads him downstairs. He talks about the nice weather. He talks about how Erik has grown. He says Erik looks a bit gaunt, that Shaw will fatten him up again. Are you on your own? Now you’re not. Now you’re home.

“You know, of course, Janos is my priority lately,” Shaw says, closing the door to his private cabin quarters. “But there is always a place for you, Erik. Always. Now, Erik. You have a few things to say to me, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Erik says. He gets to his knees and bows his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for failing you. I’m sorry you had to leave me behind.”

Shaw touches his cheek, plays with his hair. Erik shivers. It must be the cold. It can’t be fear. It can’t be longing. It can’t --

“I forgive you, Erik,” Shaw murmurs. “Now, tell me what you want.”

The debasement begins. Erik thinks: _This is right, isn’t it? The only outcome of this farce._

It lasts an eternity. Shaw reclines when it’s over, lighting a cigar. He’s not even bothered to remove anything but his shoes. His trousers are now tucked neatly back into place. Erik sits completely nude, save the wetsuit at his ankles. He stares at the port window, though he sees nothing.

He looks at his side and the bandages there. There’s new red and the skin is very tender. Who knows how infected this will become? Will Shaw permit him to see a doctor? Or will he allow Erik to die?

Inexplicably, he thinks of Xavier. Of the shower in Argentina, the uncomfortable wooden stool beneath a cold shower spray. The injury had been fresh then and Xavier was preparing to excise the flattened bullet casing in the next room. Erik had feared a clumsy, inexperienced set of hands on him. He’d also been unsure if he’d be able to return to the tavern to remind his fevered brain of Shaw’s location. The elusive trail, one Erik had followed doggedly through the past two years, gone cold.

It had been _freeing._ The future had been taken from his hands. The clean well water cleansed him, its unique minerals seeping into his skin like anointing oil.

Yet he hadn’t been able to let go. Erik had let Xavier draw the images from his mind. Now he’s returned to his gaol, into the arms of his jailer, and Erik’s body will never be clean again.

No, that isn’t true. Just beyond the hull an ancient water churns, teeming with life, its salty foam sure to leech the impurities from Erik’s flesh.

It is older than Shaw is. It is what can take him down.

The seed of sedition grows, blossoms into a plan. Where this newfound belligerence comes from -- Erik blames Xavier. The boy on his knees before Erik’s knife, still with his unbridled capacity for optimism. For _action_ , in the face of death.

He pulls on his wetsuit, wincing at his full-body soreness. Behind him, Shaw dozes. He does not fear Erik’s wrath. He’s slept through dozens of Erik’s attempts to kill him.

Erik _knows_ he cannot fight Shaw. It is impossible.

He splits open a hole in the hull to let the water do the work for him. Shaw can’t use his powers if his lungs have burst from drowning.

Erik hears Shaw shout as he uses his powers to adhere to the curled metal of the breeched hull, climbing high enough to take a proper dive. He swims as far as he can hold his breath, surfaces, and then does it again. When he’s far enough away, he turns towards the Caspartina and raises his hands. His hammering heart summons his power: Anger and Fear.

He Pushes and Pulls like he has never before. The world around him obeys his whims. The sea caresses his bruised body, as if he is the moon summoning their tides. The boats in the bay shriek with terrorr as he summons them to crash a great wave upon Shaw’s opulent cage. He rips its anchor from its rest to behind the _Caspartina_. His body sings with the rightness of it.

‘Good Boy’, Shaw had called him. _I will show you how Good I can be._

The ship is damaged beyond repair. It groans with those death throes, louder than Erik expects. There is a cracking noise as it splits in two large pieces and a craft springs from its belly.

A submarine, one shielded from Erik’s senses. Panic thrills through him. _Shaw is escaping._

He can’t do this again. He cannot remain Shaw’s prisoner, his dog. Erik Pulls with all he has inside him. The well of fury and dread that feeds his power is nearly spent. No, he can’t do this again…

Things become strange in Erik’s recollection, in the manner of dreams. Xavier comes upon Erik, speaks into his head. Erik ignores him. He does not question why Xavier has come upon him. The world is very heavy. The boy embraces from behind. As Shaw had. Xavier is far more gentle. But Shaw -- Shaw is getting away --

Erik’s body moves of its own accord, not obeying his mind. Why would it? All his care has left it. It must be pure instinct. Then he is hauled onto another ship deck, allowed to lie still. Sleep is not enough for his exhaustion. He is ready to die. He will take his complaints to God, and that will be all. He slips and drowns in his mind, seeking final peace.

In the deep, in the black, Xavier calls to him.

-xxx-

Xavier makes himself scarce for the remainder of the trip. He avoids Erik at all costs, unless it is to check his wounds.

Each time, it is the same: Xavier’s eyes are downcast. There’s color on his cheeks as he nears Erik. He prods Erik’s side with a field medic’s practical silence. He’s had to replace three stitches in the half-healed wound. It’d caused Erik some terrific pain, but anything is bearable after Erik’s recent ordeal. Sometimes, Xavier gives him medicine. When he is through with his ministrations, looks up at Erik with an odd expression, then leaves.

This hunted look bothers Erik, but what to say? Flaying Xavier open with accusations had taken the edge off of Erik’s anguish and it’d made the boy ignore him. That’s what Erik wanted.

 _I don’t want to bloody rape you!_ That part of the confrontation still stings. Erik had all but said it, but to hear it aloud…It was confirmation that Xavier knows what Erik had endured under Shaw.

Had it been rape? Erik had gotten on his knees to beg. He had acquiesced, submitted. Shaw had been benevolent. Was it rape before? When he started thinking he wanted it, years into his tenure as Shaw’s ‘Boy’? No, never. He’d known it was wrong the whole time, and yet, desired the control all the same.

He can speak to no-one about it. Surely they will pity him. Surely they will wonder why, when he’d become a man, tall and strong, he did nothing to stop Shaw.

How could one stop a god-on-earth? A man who is invincible, who controls other mutants of equal power, who bend to his will? A man who says he loves Erik, always will, but has already replaced him --?

These thoughts plague Erik constantly. He wishes for the peace he’d felt when his soul had begun slipping from his battered form. He wonders why he answered Xavier’s plea to return...

Strange how Erik remembers dying, but not the life returning to him. He is alive despite the efforts of man, nature, and God. This debt he’s incurred with Xavier is at least one he is willing to pay: healing is necessary to return to the hunt.

He _will_ hunt Shaw again. Will Shaw attempt to cover his tracks, find the weak links in his contacts? Or leave channels open for Erik to return to him?

Will Erik fall on his knees again and weep? He will not survive the encounter if so.

It doesn't bear thinking about. All that matters is getting there. Again.

They dock in Newark a day behind schedule. There had been storms. Xavier makes a phone call near the port office while Raven stands by with their luggage. She has barely spoken to Erik, having either heard the exchange between Erik and Xavier herself or had learned second-hand from her brother.

She watches Erik like her namesake. Everything about her movements now is a subtle threat, and Erik knows true power when he sees it. Xavier has the raw potential of great power. He has proven that he can wield it with some manner of competence. His sister knows her powers as intimately as she knows breath. He wagers her like Azazel and Lady: older by time, if not in mind.

Erik follows Xavier and Raven into a taxi cab. He takes the seat behind the driver. Raven sits beside him, a barrier between Erik and her brother.

He has an opportunity to look at Raven up close. He can see the lines of her true face in the human facade she uses. He wonders if only Xavier has seen real form. It is a shame if so. A boy that prefers men cannot properly encourage a young woman's vanity, her confidence. Raven has spoken in passing of girls she fancies, but Erik is certain that none of them have seen her in her natural mutant splendor.

Erik is not the man to tell her this, however. She does not trust him in the slightest. It would be unwise to flatter her, least she think him being facetious. And goodness knows how Xavier would react against a perceived slight on his sister.

They are a strange pair. He realizes that he knows little about them, save snatches of stories and chattering about conquests, moving to England at the end of the summer, what art classes Raven planned on taking first. That they are both mutants with equal power to himself, yet both well-trained despite not having any adult mutants to have guided them.

Erik had thought they were thrill-seekers, with too much money and time. He had been quickly disabused of that notion, seeing the thoughtful way they cover their tracks with minimal use of their powers. How they are willing to throw their privilege and money around if necessary, but also to get their hands dirty. Their familial ties to old money and the scientific community are advantageous to them and they are unafraid to utilize that if necessary. They are people-savvy, especially Raven, and Xavier seems prepared for any sort of pitfall or injury. It all speaks of years of trial and error.

If Erik had been the invasive sort, he would have pried further. Perhaps in his convalescence, he will discover the root of this resourcefulness. If they all come to speaking terms, that is.

There is the matter of Xavier's step-father, Dr. Kurt Marko. A man on the fringe of Erik's research, if only because he is an advocate of rejecting any knowledge culled from Axis experiments. Marko has put a few men in prison that Erik would have otherwise "visited" himself to discuss Shaw. Thus, Marko is a name associated with vague consternation. Erik respects him and the action he takes against the atrocities committed under the banner of scientific discovery.

If Marko is Erik's measure for mild frustration, his step-son breaks the barometer. Xavier’s mere presence has caused chaos to reign in Erik's relatively simple life. A life with a purpose, a single goal, devoid of attachment, save to his vengeance. All of which has been reset in the catastrophe that had taken place in Miami.

Erik Feels the gates before the taxi-cab reaches them. They are old structures. The hum of lead is within them and without: in paint as well as the frame. He sees them as they approach, and tentatively Reaches for the metal encased in the whitewashed brick.

He has but to lift a finger when Xavier looks at him.

The boy is not unattractive. He is quite pretty and knows it. He possesses a youthful beauty that has kept past puberty. He is not a willowy creature, though he plays at it to his paramours. A slip of a shirt or robe one size too large to show off virginal white shoulders. Brown curls slicked down until it they are ruffled out of place, the illusion of a boy undone by his lover. Natural doe-eyes that easily become red-rimmed, a delicate facade. Even without his powers, he's capable of an easy seduction. Men readily bank their reputations on a night or two with him.

Erik sees a boxer's build beneath those ill-fitted clothes with strong shoulders and arms. Xavier’s hands are square workman’s hands, calloused especially beneath the fingers and knuckles. He is able to mend flesh and cloth alike. He does not rely wholly on his powers. He is not always superficial with his charm. Shaw would devour him alive and pull him inside-out, no matter his sweet looks, no matter his powers.

Erik lowers his hand. When the taxi-cab stops, Xavier gets out to open the gates, which only need to be pushed. No lock at all.

Xavier gets in again and pats Raven's side. They look to be exchanging a few words between them -- Erik knows their expressions, now, when they are speaking mind-to-mind -- and Xavier asks the driver to head forward.

It is a grand thing, the Xavier Manor. It is not very old, perhaps built at the very turn of the 20th century. A _Tudorbethan_ style common at that time. It balances the ostentatious air of a castle and the simplicity of a grey-and-white stone facade. This uniform paleness is in contrast to the campus at large, replete with gardens. It is blindingly verdant, every tree having shed its flowers for the summer sun, to store energy for the dying season that follows. It has been sculpted and maintained with care, and speaks either of old money or new money that had been given fine advice about where to use it.

Erik has stayed in grander. He does not say this to his hosts. It would be untoward. And the circumstances in which he had stayed in such places are less pleasant than his current state.

Convalescence in this place seems a cold prospect. What can this place possibly offer him a decent hotel cannot? Xavier has said it held many rooms. Enough that Erik can ignore the boy, should he want. A pleasant idea at the time. Erik needs solitude. The past month Erik has continually hosted company he has not asked for. No matter how many doors between him and his “hosts”, there had been only the illusion of privacy.

Raven pays the taxi-driver while Xavier unloads. Erik stands, feeling somewhat awkward, the tallest and visually appearing the strongest, letting the boy do all the work. Xavier is hale enough, though he's flushed when he walks up.

"It's so bloody humid," he says, friendly enough. "I wish we were still in Argentina."

He's not talking to Raven. He's talking to Erik.

"Yes," Erik says slowly. "I'm not -- used to this weather. I can endure."

"That's rather what you do, isn't it?"

It doesn't seem like an insult, but Erik can't be sure. He decides to take it at face value.

The three of them make it into the Estate via the side door, which is already unlocked. Xavier props the door open and Raven picks up all their luggage as if it weighs as much as a feather pillow. Xavier closes the door and does not deign to lock it.

"Not much for security, are you?" Erik says, alarmed.

"I called ahead for some help, this place has been closed up for a while," Xavier explains. "I told them to leave the door open. They'll lock up when they leave."

Erik arches an eyebrow. "The help doesn't live here?"

"No," Xavier says.

"We have someone come once a week for cleaning," Raven says, waving them towards the foyer. "A pack of gardeners come by twice a week -- the place is lousy with gardens -- and we get our groceries brought to us.”

"No cook?" Erik asks. "No maids?"

"We do our own cooking," Xavier says, shrugging. “And laundry. It’s just the two of us, Erik.”

"Let's get to our rooms," Raven says. “Erik, I’ll show you to yours.”

Raven has Erik's meager belongings in her grip, leaving Xavier to his own devices downstairs. She sets her own luggage down on one side of the foyer stairs, and then directs him down the opposite way.

A modest room, with modest decoration. On the bed are parcels of what he assumes are clothes have been purchased for him.

"If they don't fit," Raven says, setting his single briefcase on a fine mahogany desk, "then we can get a tailor come in. We know a good one."

_A tailor. Since I was a child. My father made the finest suits in Dusseldorf._

Erik shudders. Raven's brows furrow, taking it for pain.

"We'll call Doctor Schimmer, but he's got a free clinic tomorrow. He can see you the day after, maybe. You going to make it?"

"Perhaps I will need some of Charles's good medicine," Erik says.

"Well, I'll see how he feels," Raven says. "The bathroom's across the way. There's a half-bath down the hall, if Charles is hogging it in the morning. He does that."

"Thank you," Erik says, and then, he lowers his head. He realizes that he must behave better for his hosts. His mother would be horrified at how he's acted, he thinks. _Tut mir Leid, Mama._

"I am -- thankful for the assistance.” He wants to say more: _I am not doing well. I am tired, and ill, and heart-sick._ He doesn't. He does not wish to pull his soul from its cage and lay it bare to a stranger.

Raven hesitates at the door, looking him up and down. "All right," she says, like she's made a silent decision. "You rest. We eat in the servant’s kitchen most days. It’s down the left stairwell from your room, on the floor below the portrait hallway. We'll leave something out for you."

"Thank you," Erik says.

Raven leaves him.

He digs through the packages. There are a number of underthings, tanktops and fitted boxer-briefs, as well as slacks and polos, knee-highs and socks. Two boxes nearby contain shoes that look as if they will fit him exactly. How long ago had Raven made the call for such things? Before they left Miami? Or at Nassau? Charles has said something about retrieving his locked briefcase, too. Erik won’t be surprised if it just materializes out of thin air.

Of all his belongings, it is the Coin he misses. He knows its weight, its tuning-fork song. The delicate touch of it as the ugly thing dances about his fingers. His mother had died for the Coin. It symbolizes Shaw’s cruelty, what he is willing to do to get “results” from his followers. His _prisoners._

Erik’s heart clenches at the thought of Azazel’s distant look on the _Caspartina_. _My friend, I am sorry. After all you have done for me..._

No, there is something Erik can do for Azazel. He can kill Shaw and free him, Lady, this poor other Boy who is more delusional than Erik had ever been. There is fight in Erik yet. If the Xavier boy can stand before death and grin, he can do the same.

-xxx-


	11. Part Two - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Groomed properly, he looks almost human. The word makes him laugh under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings this time. Thanks as always for everyone's support!!

 

> _With just my heart and my mind_  
>  _I can be driving,_  
>  _Driving home,_  
>  _And you asleep_  
>  _On the seat._

-xxx-

When Erik wakes the second day, his body is far more in tune with his mind. He takes a long shower, savoring it. There is no shortage of bottles, soaps and oils to choose from. This is certainly Xavier's domain.

He remains in the bathroom for some time after drying and re-dressing his wound. Erik tries on the bathrobe left for him. It's a bit big, and the house slippers are a little tight. (Xavier.) A brown paper bag holds a new safety razor, a shave stick, also new, and a short boar brush, recently cleaned with astringent. (Raven.) Erik shaves for the first time in days and finds it close to a religious awakening. He chooses a rather mild smelling aftershave from a cluster of thick-bottomed glass bottles, and then selects one of three face lotions for his use. There are at least five creams and lotions for everything other part of his body, not to mention the rainbow of hair product tins stacked in lopsided towers. It's a very busy bathroom to navigate, and he learns much about Xavier's mad mind from the colorful disarray of his grooming habits.

Erik, defenses low, is quite charmed.

He wipes the steam away from the mirror to survey his hair. Erik combs it down and uses a light product, only enough to fix it in place. It's become rough with poor health and drying salt water and he needs a trim, but that can wait.

He shrugs off his heavy-shouldered bathrobe and hangs it with care on the coat rack in his room. The new clothes are soft from proper laundering and it is a great pleasure to pull on slacks and an undershirt that are not stiff from being hand-washed and sun-dried. They fit well, flush enough that he will not need a tailor after all. Raven's adaptation must require her to size someone up on sight, so it is not so mystifying.

He looks in the mirror on the bureau and adjusts the collar of his light button-up. He has lost weight and his cheekbones are very pronounced. He ignores the memory of Shaw saying that he’d be “fattened up” again.

Groomed properly, he looks almost human. The word makes him laugh under his breath.

After spending much of the past month in cramped spaces, Erik is nearly overwhelmed with the open space in the Xavier mansion. There is so much to explore. Some wings are clearly not prepared for guests and the doors shuttered. A shame. Erik feels isolated, which he covets rather than rejects. He is used to being alone. It will be a while until he is accustomed to constant company again.

When he is done his brief walk around, he makes his way to the servant's kitchen as instructed. The door to the basement is open, its numerous locks undone. These locks are on the mansion-side only.

There is little clearance at the landing for Erik’s head and he must duck beneath the door to enter the room. It is slightly chill, as it’s set in the ground and there’s a ceiling fan. The place is painted in blue and green and white. The stove is small with only two burners, the icebox half-size, an old bookshelf and standing wardrobe re-purposed as a pantry. It has two small windows set over a naked sink, the view of some courtyard shrubbery. There is a long metal table against the wall opposite the stove, preparation area with a stack of assorted plates and a rack of mugs as well as a record player. A round wooden table stands high off the ground in the center of the room. Mismatched bar stools surround it.

It is a pell-mell sight like Xavier's bathroom. But it is welcoming. On the high table is a foil-wrapped plate and a note. It’s in Raven’s handwriting: _tea and coffee in cabinet, go wild._

Erik sets a battered kettle on for tea. There are numerous kinds to choose from, but he picks a British standard and searches for sugar. He finds it and some powdered milk which he knows his hosts are fond of using on the road. All their powdered goods are in old coffee cans. There’s also fresh milk in the icebox, so he pulls out the bottle and sets it on the table, inspecting the food left for him.

The plate is filled with American-style flour biscuits. They’re still warm. They are dressed either with globs of jam and melted butter. He eats the one with butter first and prays his body will not overreact. Erik knows these things are made with solid fats and are very rich despite their simplistic recipe. When there are no ill effects, he chooses a strawberry-soaked one next.

Filled soon with breakfast and stimulating tea without stomach trouble, Erik continues to survey this homey little space Raven and Xavier have curated. It is far more lived in than anything he’s seen on the main floors of the manor, though he suspects the laundry rooms and main kitchens are utilized regularly by the skeleton staff.

There is a bathroom to the right of the entrance that has a curtain for a door. It has a standing shower and a commode, and smells strongly of rose water. There’s a small assortment of products down here stacked precariously on the modest sink. The medicine cabinet mirror has cracked in the top left, stretching down the surface like old vines.

To the left, there is a gust of cool air. A door has been left ajar, letting in the smokey smell of tobacco, coal, and incense drift into the kitchen. There’s a rough passageway he can see beyond that door, an older part of the basement. The kitchen and bathroom must be later additions, which accounts for its cramped nature.

It does not escape his notice that this door _also_ locks from only one side.

He takes the small set of stairs down, again with no clearance for his head in the brief tunnel until he steps on the recessed floor. Even then, his head brushes against the thin fabrics hung from the rafters. Dust filters down and on his face. When he wipes it away he notices its bright color.

The dust comes from the fabric itself. Like pollen or a butterfly’s wing and its powdery scales. They are coats, jackets, dresses, blouses and button-ups but far too thin to be any of those things, nearly transparent. Erik realizes what they must be: remnants of Raven’s transformations. He wonders what exactly causes the need to remove a disguise rather than absorb it as he’s seen her do, if this was just evidence of her learning. It almost seems unwise to have them so obviously arrayed. Every other ceiling beam has a dangling bulb and wire, swaying just far enough from Raven’s fabrics so as to not catch them on fire. _Also_ unwise.

Erik is learning that wisdom is not something in which the siblings put their stock. They are intelligent, cunning and quick-witted, but wisdom would advise them _not_ to traverse the world in search of murderous mutants.

The room alternates bare brick and plaster. It contains more benign madness. Xavier has rule over a good half of the space. There is a thick metal shelf stuffed with books, ledgers, extra typewriter ribbons, pencil leads, and bottles of fountain pen ink. His desk is expansive and cracked in places, likely once discarded and re-purposed. Its broad surface is apparently just an extension of the shelf, stacks of papers and open books, a full-sized typewriter with three replacement keys and a stenotype that had recently been gutted for parts. Cracked and likely priceless china cups are filled with small worn stones with a variety of dip-pens their fountain-fill cousins. In tight company are many chipped porcelain animals. The writing slant the boy uses is stained with spilled ink. At least, Erik thinks, there is no standing food or moldering tea mugs.

He wonders what state Xavier’s _bedroom_ is in.

A spigot and drain are installed on the wall shared with the kitchen. There’s what appears to be an ancient commode now repurposed as a place for paints and tools. Near the spigot, a derelict dumbwaiter, propped open with an overflow of Xavier’s tiny figurine zoo. In the middle of the opposite wall, there is a wood heater, not quite a stove, rather hastily vented with plaster and pipe through the single window, which has been painted over. A small crack remains open, ostensibly to vent cigarette smoke as well.

Raven’s tidy, elegant space is nearly hidden behind sheets of cotton, real hangings rather than her featherlight disguises. They appeared to be old sheets with thick embroidery over the tears, draped in deliberate delineation of her work area and Xavier’s. She has a typewriter, neat stacks of different blank papers, a fine set of dip-inks and pens. There’s a round rabbit and fat bluebird figurine from Xavier’s collection. Her desk is a sturdy oak door on its side, propped up by cinder blocks. The blocks are painted white with details in light blue and bright red-and-yellow flowers. _A touch of Zalipie_ , he thinks.

There had been an open market a quarter day’s travel from Erik’s small village. He recalls accompanying his father more times than with his mother. When he’d go with Mother, Father would make sure to give her a bit extra in pocket money for her to buy a new record. He’d then give Erik his “wages” and tell him to keep an eye on Mother, least she run off with the goats to be one of them. She’d hold Erik’s hand as they jostled around in the back of a neighbor’s wagon, talking to him about how she feels the weather isn’t going to hold and if Erik should need a new pair of boots that they can afford them.

 _No Mama_ , Erik would say, _I’m fine with what I have._

 _I’m not_ , Mother would say. _My boy must look the best he can when he is working. How else will I find you a wife? Do you want to marry a goat?_

_No, Mama, I don’t want to marry a goose either._

_Then you will get new boots._

This conversation had been repeated with different vestments each time. Erik wants to remember them all, of course. This one memory stands out to him in this cramped little office, with its mismatched decor and brilliant colors. Mother had finished collecting their necessities. He had just been fitted for boots. They would be slightly bigger so he can grow into them and he would have to stuff the toes for some time. Mother had taken him on a look for the woman who sold fabric scraps from the big city’s textile mills and picked out some of the brightest pieces for him, white and blue.

 _Near Krakow_ , she’d say, wistful, _there is a village that paints their houses all white with blue shutters, and colorful flowers on each side of the house. I always wanted a house like that._

Erik had taken the bag of fabrics and put them in his travel sack. He’d noticed Mother hadn’t stopped by the import stall, where she’d buy her records. All her extra money must have gone to his boots. That wouldn’t do. Erik had checked his wages in his pocket. He’d done extra work this past month, and Father had given him a raise. He’d known then just what he’d buy for his Mama.

He made great efforts to hide his purchase on the way back. It’d been clear to Mother from the start he was hiding something, of course, but she’d allowed him the mystery. Erik then had to spend a whole two days waiting for Mother to go to a neighbor’s house so that he could hatch his plan.

When Father and Mother had returned from their journey, they’d found their only son covered in blue paint and the shutters of their house rather deliberately painted blue on whatever Erik had been able to reach on his overturned milk pail.

 _I couldn’t do every one of them_ , he’d said, _so I just made sure they were all even._

Father hadn’t seemed pleased, but he wasn’t angry. How could he have been, when Mother had hooted and clapped with such joy? She’d rushed forward to cup Erik’s face and kiss his cheeks over and over. She'd drawn back smudged all in blue. Her eyes had been damp and filled with love.

 _Schatzi,_ she’d said, _it’s perfect. Just what I wanted. Just like Zalipie._

Erik knocks his knuckles on Raven’s desk, then lifts his hand to brush the tears caught in his lashes. These memories bring him joy in one moment and betray him in the next.

There’s more to see, he’s sure. He has no heart for it. Erik returns to the main floor and decides to find a place to smoke.

There are plenty of rooms to choose from, even with only a quarter of the house known to him. He decides on the sitting room between his room and the hall leading to Raven’s. It’s cramped and kept well, with no signs of Xavier’s clutter. He opens the shutters and takes a good look out into the front lawn of the property.

 _A pack of gardeners_ , Raven had said, _twice a week_. A pack of ten would be the minimum for this campus. The orderly lines of simple hedges allow the flowers and white trellises to stand out. He wonders what it was like growing up here and having such a great amount of places to explore. Xavier appears a bookish sort but he is surprisingly athletic. Raven must have brought it out in him when she’d arrived, he decides. He banishes thoughts of those strangely locked doors, the self-sufficient nature of the converted office.

Just after the hour strikes two o’clock, Erik hears the siblings return. Xavier and Raven’s magpie chatter is incoherent but cheerful. He puts down the book he’s been picking through -- a dog-eared botany textbook, all in German -- and considers what to do. Should he greet his hosts? Should he remain quiet and unobtrusive until he is called?

Raven shouts from the foyer: “Erik! _Lunch!_ ”

They set up in the smaller kitchen on the first floor, nestled a far corner off one of the sitting rooms. This is clearly the new servant’s kitchen. The young master’s long taken over the one in the basement. It’s all green tile and open windows with stained-glass flourishes. The sparse furniture gives it the impression of a cozy cafe.

The preparation table is now a sandwich station, cold cuts and cheeses and pots of mayonnaise and two different mustards. A ceramic electric kettle was already working its way up to a boil. Raven greeted him at the door, dressed in practical daywear, high-waisted capris and a light blue cotton blouse.

“You’re here pretty quick,” she says, half-smiling. “Charles’ll be back in a second. He’s gone to get his Kool-Aid mix from downstairs.”

Erik prepares his sandwich, cold cut turkey and swiss with just a small amount of mayonnaise. There’s a head of fresh lettuce still damp from being washed and he marvels at the simple luxury of fresh food after a month of travelling. When he goes to fetch a mug for himself, he realizes with a slight jolt that Xavier is already in the kitchen, pouring some of the kettle water into a carafe.

Xavier looks up at Erik and visibly balks.

“I’m using it to melt the sugar first,” he apologizes. “Otherwise it’s too tart.”

“It’s your kitchen,” Erik says, “and your kettle.”

Xavier’s eyes dart downward. He shrugs. He’s rumpled, which is his general state, matching his sister in a polo one size to large and pair of chinos a few shades lighter than her outfit. His hair is not held by product at all and his curls, overgrown, fall over his brow. The boy sets the kettle down on a raised tile next to the outlet for Erik’s use and all but scampers away, a startled rabbit.

Over his shoulder, Raven watches them both. She looks at Erik. It’s not an accusatory look but not a pleasant one. Erik nods at her as it’s the only thing he can think to do.

If there was to be an awkward silence, it would be after the three of them finished their food. Erik restrains himself from bolting his sandwich and it appears the others are just as famished. He wipes at his mouth every so often, hearing Azazel’s voice in his head chiding him for lax etiquette.

Speaking of manners. “Thank you for this, and for breakfast,” Erik says. “Who made the biscuits?”

“Charles did.”

“They’re only from a mix,” Xavier mutters.

Erik shrugs. “They were baked well. Not burned and not raw. That takes skill, too.”

“Thank you.” Xavier looks at his empty plate and his empty glass with its melting ice and the remains of the bright red drink. “Raven, do you mind cleaning up? I’m not feeling well.”

“I -- Charles,” Erik begins, trying to not sound exasperated, “you don’t have to leave.”

“I want to,” Xavier says. He gets up to put his dishes in the sink and leaves.

Raven folds her hands over her plate. She rests her chin on her linked fingers.

“I can clean up your plate,” she says. “Give him ten minutes. Then go talk to him.”

It’s an order, not a suggestion. Erik takes it for what it is.

He tidies himself in the nearest bathroom and slicks back his hair as if he’s about to attend a business meeting. It is, in its way.

Xavier’s room is easy to find, even if Erik hadn’t known where it was. It's beyond the stairs nearest Erik’s room,. The door is slightly cracked and there’s fresh cigarette smoke. There’s a record playing, a woman’s clear voice over brass and piano:

> _Am I blue_  
>  _Am I blue?_  
>  _Ain't these tears in my eyes_  
>  _Telling you?_
> 
> _Am I blue?_  
>  _You’d be too_  
>  _If each plan with your man_  
>  _Done fell through._

Erik waits for the instrumental solo to knock.

“Charles?” he asks. “It’s Erik. Are you well enough for company?”

There’s a quick shuffle and the sound of feet. The record scratches as Xavier takes the needle off the vinyl. Another shuffle and Xavier says,

“Come in.”

Erik allows himself a casual stroll in the room. It is almost as he expected. Its ceiling is higher than the guest room Erik’s in and big enough for two fans, wobbling at different intervals. The curtains on the high windows are drawn shut save a silver in each to let light in. Xavier’s desk is covered in empty pop and beer bottles and piles school books and bound papers. There’s no real color to this room beyond its disarray. There’s not a single figurine or cracked china cup to be seen. His typewriter is in far better condition than the one downstairs. The only bit of boyhood comfort is a single jointed stuffed rabbit sitting tucked on a shelf.

The boy perches on his bed. He’s out of his chinos and polo and in sleeping trousers with a tank top. He draws one stockinged foot towards himself at the knee, flicking his cigarette ash in the marble tray on one of his bedside tables. There are more pop bottles there.

“Did you like lunch?” Xavier murmurs, almost inaudible.

“Yes, thank you,” Erik says.

“It’ll probably be dinner, too,” Xavier says. “We haven’t yet got our stores built up again.”

“I’m certainly fine repeating meals.”

“Oh,” Xavier says. He looks mortified. “I-I’m sorry.”

“No, I --” Erik inhales. Xavier’s thinking of meals in captivity, a torture camp’s gruel and thin soup. “When you grow up in the country, there’s not a lot of variety unless it’s a special occasion. I’m used to it. Hearty food is always appreciated.”

Relief washes over Xavier physically, his shoulders relaxing. “All right,” he says.

“I was thinking,” Erik says, clearing his throat, “if you don’t mind looking at my wound. I cleaned it after my shower, but I’d like your opinion.”

Xavier’s nose crinkles. The freckles on it are prominent, even far away. “All right,” he says, unfolding himself. He grasps for a thin white satin robe, one patterned with fanciful flowers and birds and pulls it over his shoulders. He keeps it open. There’s no flirtation in his movements. “Um, sit on the sofa, I’ll open the curtains.”

Erik sits and begins to remove his shirt and tanktop. Xavier fetches his medical kit, opening it on his bed. His square shoulders are outlined clearly in the pale robe and when he kneels at Erik’s side, Erik appreciates the boy’s strong forearms. It’s one of Xavier’s subtle secrets: he is stronger than he appears on the surface.

Xavier is all business. He starts pressing around Erik’s ribs and near his spine and abdomen to see if there’s swelling or if Erik’s in pain. It’s only towards the stitches, especially the new ones.

“You must think me quite rude,” Erik says, looking down at the mess of curls and the prominent nose that was all he could see of Xavier. The boy looks up at him. With the light so stark on his face, his blue eyes appear crystalline.

“What do you mean?” Xavier asks. He tears open an iodine swab and turns his attention back to the wound.

“I haven’t properly thanked you,” Erik murmurs, “for saving my life.”

“I, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” Erik touches Xavier’s shoulder, squeezing through the fabric, feeling the muscle there. “I have been --”

“Stressed,” Xavier says, picking a gauze pad out now and medical tape. “I-If that’s all right for me to say.”

 _How long are you going to stand there and presume my needs?_ Erik had said to him. And still Xavier had tended him after his outburst and given him his space.

“It’s true,” Erik says. “And, Charles. I’m --” He clears his throat. “I am very sorry for what I implied you wanted.”

The boy’s eyebrows lift. He’s in the midst of wiping his hands with a pungent alcohol wipe. “I,” he begins. “You were… you were upset,” he finishes.

“That’s no excuse to accuse someone -- of what I accused you of.” Erik is practiced with speech but he finds himself hesitating, second-guessing each word. “It was appalling manners, on top of being cruel.”

Xavier stands, his hands tucked in the handle of his kit. He looks so much younger than nineteen. Everything about their recent communication has been strange. Xavier has been so unlike the ebullient creature that had openly flirted with Erik. The boy who’d nakedly defied him at the point of a knife.

“Thank you,” Xavier says. “That was -- it _was_ very hurtful.”

“I can imagine,” Erik says, releasing a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d held. He pats Xavier’s elbow. “All right, then, you and me?”

Xavier gnaws on his red lip and doesn’t answer. Erik hears himself again: _What, do you think we’re_ friends?

“If you’re all right, then I am,” Erik adds.

“Yes,” Xavier says and attempts a little smile.

Erik pulls on his tanktop and shirt again while the boy stows the medical kit. He looks around the room again with its monotonous furniture and the dull paintings that don’t quite suit Xavier’s personality. It’s evident that this is where he keeps up appearances to the outside world. His family. The Xavier he’d experienced before Miami is in that joyful mess in the basement and not this dusty clutter where the boy sleeps at night. Erik had caused him to retreat to this dreadful state, which is profane.

“Charles,” Erik says, standing. “I’d like to see more of the house. It’s very nice, actually.”

“You must have seen many places like this,” Xavier says, pushing his curls back from his face.

“Yes,” Erik replies, “but this is _your_ home, and those were not.”

The pleased color on Xavier’s -- _Charles’s_ \-- face is a nice change to his pallor.

“Let me change,” the boy says.

“I think your robe is quite fetching,” Erik says. Testing the water.

“Oh, thank you,” Charles says. He picks at it and grins. He’s much less hesitant now. “It’s my mum’s. I’ve stolen more than one over the years. She’s never noticed.”

“I’m sure they look better on you,” Erik says. He holds his elbow out. “Well?”

Charles walks over and slips his hand in Erik’s arm, then frowns. “...We’re not going to fit side-by-side in the hallway.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to lead me by the hand, then.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” Charles says, humming. “But I am quite short. You might lose me.”

“Fair enough,” Erik says. Charles laughs and takes his offered hand. They abandon the boy’s room to find some color again.


	12. Part Two - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decision made, an odd sensation comes over Erik. It takes a moment to place it. It’s not something he’s felt in years. Something he hadn't expected to feel again.
> 
> It is peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Additional Warnings. 
> 
> Thanks to my good friend Rae for sensitivity reading the Dr. Schimmer section for me. ♥ And to all of you who're going on this canon divergent journey with me!

 

> _Watching storms_  
>  _Start to form_  
>  _Over America._

-xxx-

Erik has never met a true telepath before Charles Xavier. Lady hadn’t been one, though her talents are similar: she can divine truths from lies, conceal herself and others, bring memories to the surface, and other things necessary for interrogation and subterfuge. These things Charles at nineteen is able to do, if not with Lady’s finesse, then matching her in power. He can sense the souls of people and mutants and make the distinction. He can stop a man in his tracks and puppet his body to his will.

He also leaks emotions like steam when he’s excited. It’s a heady feeling of giddiness and earnestness, something wholly unknown to Erik. He has a contact high from being near Charles as the boy shows off the house.

Most of the closed spaces house fine arts, vases, books, and other odds-and-ends rich people enjoy hoarding. He shows off an old art studio that belonged to his grandmother before she’d been widowed and returned to her native Scotland. There are numerous guest rooms and sitting rooms, even another kitchen and laundry. It’s no wonder that they only use a portion of the house. It would be hell on a small staff.

“Where did they go?” Erik asks, while they stroll back to the main hall. “The staff.”

“Mother took them with her to her estate,” Charles says. “She lives in Vermont near her family.”

Charles’s tone says that talking about his mother is a verboten subject. “I see,” Erik says.

“You two have been gone for two hours,” Raven calls out as they approach the foyer. Her arms dangle rom the landing rail above them. “I thought I might have to fish you out from a hollow wall or something.”

"Do you have those here?" Erik asks Charles. They are no longer holding hands, but Charles is at his elbow.

"Some," Charles says, leaning in. "You can’t give all the secrets away. Maybe later.”

"Later is right," Raven says. "Erik, if I can borrow Charles for a while?"

"I thought I was the one borrowing," Erik says, and smiles at Charles.

"I'm my own free woman," the boy says, flipping a curl back and snorting through his nose. "It sounds like you have chores for me?”

"I got Dr. Schimmer's clinic requests lined up,” Raven says. "They're downstairs."

"Oh, excellent!" Charles exclaims. The rush of his delight runs through Erik again. "Erik, we'll be working for a while. If you can make sure we don't go past six without something to eat, drag us upstairs?"

"I'll be glad to drag you around a bit more, yes," Erik says. "I don't think Raven will appreciate me doing the same to her, however.”

"Erik’s a quick study," Raven says.

"Charles," Erik says, catching his wrist before the boy can walk away. "Thank you for the tour."

The way Charles’s face lights up when Erik shows even the slightest amount of kindness towards him is troublesome. Erik begins to realize that it is not for the sake Charles infatuated with him. He seeks approval from all others. Even in those who may not deserve it. Erik likes to think he deserves it, despite his recent lapse in manners.

"Of course, Erik," Charles says.

When they think they are far enough away down the hall, Charles throws himself into Raven's arms. What he says is unintelligible at this distance. He might as well have been speaking to her mind. The tone is that of helpless relief, readable enough. Raven kisses the top of his head.

She looks down the hallway and meets Erik's eyes. She tilts her head and nods, then leads Charles down to the basement kitchen. Erik’s relief at her approval is almost physical.

 _Why does Charles put so much stock in strangers, when_ Raven _approves of him?_ Erik thinks, and smiles. The gesture feels so strange and foreign on his face. Perhaps it is because it's occurring naturally and no one is there to see. Smiling with social cues is one thing. Smiling on your own is certainly another.

He keeps an ear on the clocks and takes his leisure time reading and smoking in the kitchen. Erik’s not surprised when the clock chimes six and the two haven’t returned.

Making good on his promise, Erik heads to summon Raven and Charles to dinner. Muffled music and voices accompany the slow drizzle of cigarette smoke through the crack in the basement door. Whatever work they’ve dug into, Erik finds it a shame to interrupt them.

He raises his knuckles to the door when he hears,

"Erik!" Charles calls, "Come in!"

"How did you know it was me?" Erik asks, ducking his head to enter the kitchen.

"You walk like a Frankenstein monster when you go down stairs," Raven says. “That, and you’re the only one in the house. Get in here.”

She and Charles have transformed the kitchen. The preparation table looks like a reception desk, slightly skewed stacks of what look like blank forms and a collection of stamps. Beneath the table are two crates he'd seen in the "office" earlier the day. The forms must be their contents. Raven turns down the volume on the record player, mostly instrumentals lead with a violin.

Both typewriters are on the circular table, crowding the notebooks and tea mugs there. Charles wears only his undershirt and trousers due to the heat, shirt and socks and shoes discarded. He's wiggling a recently lit cigarette in his mouth as he’s wont to. He's sweaty and his curls are slicked back with it. He looks utterly relaxed. This is the first time Charles has looked more than a boy to Erik.

"You do kind of clunk around," Charles says, waving. "Well, come on. Might as well let you know what we'll be up to tomorrow."

"Yeah,” Raven says, “we might need your help to get it all sorted."

"I thought I was here to summon you to dinner, but all right." Erik is impossibly curious. Lady and Azazel both would have scolded him for it. _But they're not here._ He pulls his chair up.

"Well, we can do that later," Charles says, waving a hand. "Cigarette? Tea?"

"Information," Erik says.

Raven tosses her head back and laughs. "You're becoming my favorite person."

Charles whines, "Oh, I see how it is!”

"Stuff it, Charles. Anyway, Erik,” Raven extends her hands, gesturing to the table. “I'm sure you're _dying_ to know how we've managed not to get ourselves killed."

"Yes, certainly," Erik says. He takes the cigarette from Charles’s tin and lets the boy light it for him.

"Well, we started out needing to get me papers,” Raven says. “I showed up and Charles kept me around for a while, but you know, that's not _living._ We had to make it legitimate."

"She _was_ a maid for a while," Charles says, around his cigarette. "She hated it."

"Yeah, who _wouldn't?_ Anyway, we'd figured we could learn how to -- make papers happen."

"It's getting harder," Charles says, nodding seriously. "They're getting wiser."

"Stop interrupting."

The cigarette wiggles again. "No."

Raven throws a wadded paper at her brother. "So, you know, we do what a pair twelve-year-olds would do. We read detective novels and figure out we need to fake a few lines in the Xavier registry. He's basically the last in his family, his grandmother remarried after his grandfather Xavier died, yadda yadda. So, we start digging around to find where the papers would be held for immigration around the time the Xaviers came over here…”

"... and found out what a big pain in the arse it is to do that," Charles says, scratching at his nose with his pinky. "So we just winged it."

That phrasing is somewhat new to Erik. "Come again?"

"We improvised," Raven says. "Got nosy in a library and a vital records clerk's office to see what everything looked like, smuggled some things out, then started working on making papers with fancy inks over a long holiday..."

"...and by January, Mother finds a cute little girl in neat clothes and two bags at her doorstep saying she's a niece from the Xavier estate and that she's been sent to stay." Charles ashes his cigarette, at last. "She even came with her own portion of the fortune for proof."

"Which I proved by pulling out of Charles's main accounts she's got no access to and opening an account," Raven explains.

"And Mother was so relieved to have a daughter she didn't think twice," Charles says. There's a wistfulness to it that speaks of a hurt long buried. "We've since had, er, time to _refine_ the process."

"We were almost embarrassed when we saw the job we’d done on my work. Had a few, uh, plot holes to fix up," Raven says, taking back the conversation. "And like Charles says, it's getting harder to do this kind of work lately. Still, since I can be anyone, and Charles can make people believe anything, even that we're invisible... well. We’ll keep going as long."

"Admirable," Erik says, tapping his chin. He'd forgotten about his cigarette, listening to the two siblings speak. It'd ashed halfway and he'd only had two puffs. He's only a little surprised at their intrepid schemes considering what they’ve done for him. He had thought most of it was throwing money around. "Very admirable. I'm being honest. So, that means these forms are for people who need -- identification papers?"

"Not much anymore, but something like that," Charles says. "We have someone with a clinic in the Bronx who has lists of people he'd like for us to help and what they need done."

"Dr. ... Schimmer, yes?"

"Yeah," Raven says. "He's great. One of Dad's old war buddies, actually."

"We're seeing him tomorrow," Charles adds. "He'll, ah, being inspecting your wound."

Charles gestures to Erik, around the vicinity of his side.

"He'll tell you how long you have until your stitches are out," Charles says. His lashes flutter a little as he remembers.

_I’ll call a doctor when we get to shore. You stay in the estate until your stitches are out and you can move without pain. Then you can decide to disappear, if you want._

"It shouldn't be too long," Charles says. He maintains his smile well enough. "You've been taking good care of them since Florida."

"I'll let him know you've done a fine job," Erik says.

Charles laughs. He puts a new cigarette to his mouth and lights it. His eyes are slightly damp though his voice is steady.

"He'll say you're being nice," Charles says.

They finish setting up their work for tomorrow. Erik helps them pack up. He notices the forms are most likely stolen and then finished here. They are all for relatively minor things: forgiveness for small infractions, reversals on parking tickets. Priority requests for inspections to allow businesses to reopen. Erik assumes the more complex things, like vital records, are as risky as they say.

Small things make ripples, that Erik knows. The misery of the world is vast and one cannot be so paralyzed by it that they do not act. It is what he has been taught. This is the kind of thing he would do, if he’d the time.

He listens to the siblings’ indistinct banter above him and surveys the remains of their altruistic chaos, and thinks of staying a while longer.

-xxx-

The next day’s trip from the Xavier manor to Dr. Schimmer's clinic in the Bronx is about an hour and a half. They are in the attached garage, looking through the Xaviers’ many cars. They are recent additions, so Erik asks if they're Charles's or his step-father's.

"Mine. I have expensive tastes in two ways," Charles says, "one, old manuscripts copies from famous books, and two, automobiles."

"Ah, good, I was going to think you said you fancied clothes," Erik says. "I'd had to have called your bluff."

Charles draws a face. "I like clothes fine. I look good today."

He _is_ wearing something close to fashionable that day: a crisp blue shirt with his arms bared, high-waisted chinos and a slim belt with contrast flat oxfords and socks.

"I'm still going to call your bluff," Erik says. He flips his own day jacket over his shoulder. "Raven dressed you."

"Bing-oh," Raven says. She's wearing a daydress in yellow and trimmed with blue ribbon, one of her favorite white sunhats with her for the ride. “I don’t let him be frumpy in front of Dr. Schimmer if I can help it.”

"Piss off, the both of you," Charles says, and rummages for his keys.

They open the windows for the drive. It's a hot day but the breeze makes it bearable. Charles's Coppertone smell is almost a signature scent aside from his choice of pomade and will likely continue to be until Autumn.

Erik has never been to New York City. He knows there are many different puzzle pieces to the city itself, that it's often conflated with the entire state. That it is a small country with its own states in its way, that it is here so many refugees make their home with other immigrants from only a few generations before. It is a wave of chaos that crashes over Erik when they enter the Bronx, with its traffic, the color and motion of people and towering buildings. If Erik hadn't been trained to keep a cool head when he becomes overwhelmed, he might've gotten dizzy from looking up and around the place like a common tourist.

Charles finds a parking garage with a valet and tips well in advance. He takes their ticket and shoves it in his back pocket, grinning and leaning over to whisper something at Raven. They form their own little pack, gently trotting in front of Erik holding their suitcases full of faked tickets and pardons.

They arrive at a side street and disappear behind a fence. They're heading towards a blue door. If Erik makes his guess correctly, it will have them enter into a general store he'd seen on the other side of the street.

A few people mill around in the alleyway and on the fire escapes above, fresh laundry dripping from a network of lines. Children play between the gamut of stairs. No one gives Erik’s hosts any mind, used to seeing them around.

Raven whistles through her teeth when they enter the There's only a few steps from the landing until the three of them are crammed single-file into a hallway. Charles holds his case over his head, making a little song of it: _hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go._

There is a pin-tight turn into a stairwell, which they take. Beyond that a few meters is another door to the store itself. What lies there is for another day. Erik follows Raven and Charles up the stairs and ducks when the clearance between the stairs gets too low. They pass the second floor and end up on the third. There's two doors, one on either side of the narrow hall beyond the stairs, and Charles leads them to the furthest one.

"Dr. Schimmer!" Raven calls out, opening the door after knocking. "We're here!"

"I heard you a mile away," a man says. He's hunched over his long, flat desk, which is surrounded by bookshelves. At each of his elbows is a typewriter, one black and one green. He sits beneath the only window, the curtain drawn closed. The artificial lights are harsh in contrast.

"Well, come in," Dr. Schimmer says. He gestures with his pencil. "You brought the new boy?"

"Yes," Charles says. Obediently, they file in like children lining up for a story lesson. When they're all in front of Dr. Schimmer's desk, they flank Erik as if they are presenting him as stock.

"This is Erik Lehnsherr. Erik, this is Dr. Haiyam Schimmer."

Erik gets a closer look at the man. He wears simple, well-tailored clothes and suspenders. His hair is shorn to his scalp and his glasses are framed by strong brows. He looks surprised at Erik.

"Hello Erik. You're a tall one," Dr. Schimmer says. His accent is implacable. "He's the one with the stitches?"

"Yessir," Charles says. "Thank you for seeing him today."

"I was planning to close the clinic early, since you were bringing paperwork today." Dr. Schimmer looks around his desk before adjusting his glasses. "Well, leave what you need to leave in that chair over there. Find some space. Let's get this fellow in the clinic, hmm?"

Erik allows himself to be shuttled around once more. He doesn't have to think for once, and it’s oddly peaceful.

The other room has double-doors and takes up the majority of the third floor. It's got many beds that have standing curtains around them. There's a strong smell of coffee and antiseptic over sharp-smelling Lysol. A small metal desk is set near the front, like a receptionist area.

"Sit down," Dr. Schimmer says, gesturing. "Raven, head back to the office and sort those requests in piles. I'll need to talk to you after I'm done here. Charles, you boil me some water and bring towels from the kitchen while I look your new friend over."

Orders given, the other two leave. Erik is not sure how he feels about being left alone with a relative stranger. He knows the metal desk can easily be used in a fight, all the curtains and beds. Charles and Raven wouldn't have brought him to such a place to have him hurt.

He is kind to himself and allows his unease in a room so sterile and vast, alone with the man who rules it.

"They are good children," Dr. Schimmer says, fetching a bag from beside the table. He pushes out two caster chairs. "Sit, sit. Raven's told me much about you, Erik."

"I'm afraid to ask what she's told you."

Dr. Schimmer says, in Yiddish, "Enough to plan ahead."

Erik feels strange, hearing those words. His extremities feel cold. He sits down as he's told, but there is a tremor within him that he cannot control. He's not sure why.

Dr. Schimmer begins a routine examination. "Open your mouth," he says, for the tongue depressor. Feels his neck -- "Nodes are swollen, hmm, not a surprise," -- then takes out his stethoscope to hear his heartbeat, "Normal enough."

Then, "Give me your arm." Dr. Schimmer removes the blood-pressure cuff from his bag. Erik extends his left arm without thinking, drawing up the sleeve.

Dr. Schimmer pauses over it. His hands touch the numbers, his brow furrows.

"Have you been by yourself?" he asks.

Erik frowns. "Pardon? I’m with Charles and Raven, but before --"

"No. I mean by _yourself_. Since you left."

Erik has to lie. But _is_ it a lie? When the camps had been liberated, he'd left there with Shaw. He'd been Shaw's hunting dog until three years ago.

He hasn't been with his people for fear of bringing his ills upon them. They need no more. So, it isn't a lie after all. "Since I left."

Dr. Schimmer gently grips Erik's wrist. "You must feel so alone."

He has needed medical attention before this, of course. People have seen the numbers as a result. Few people react well. It is almost an annoyance, at times: _please do your job first, pity me second._

Dr. Schimmer’s tone expresses neither pity or fear. It is mourning.

Things return on course. Dr. Schimmer doesn’t wish to push Erik. He fixes the cuff on Erik's upper arm.

"Make a fist," he says.

Erik does, reflexively looking down to see Dr. Schimmer work. Tears track down his face. He hadn't felt them come.

So it goes like this for the rest of his examination. Dr. Schimmer is very instructive, and does not bring attention to Erik's silent tears, the slight shake of his shoulders.

"You're in decent health," Dr. Schimmer declares. "I'm going to go see how our intrepid _shabbos goy_ is doing in the kitchen.”

He hands Erik a handkerchief and leaves him without another word.

Erik cannot find the wracking sobs he thinks should come. He cannot find anger or pain. He puts the handkerchief against his face and curls over to his knees, shaking his head over and over to clear it. Dr. Schimmer takes his time returning. When he does, he's got Charles with him, toting towels and hot water.

"Let's see your work, Charles," Dr. Schimmer says.

Erik pulls off his shirt, wincing. It's been nearly a month since he’d suffered the wound. The incident in Miami undid much of the initial healing, as well as more than one stitch.

Dr. Schimmer squints at the work. "Did you redo the stitching after the first time?"

"Yes, about a week and a half ago,” Charles says. “A few slipped and I had to re-stitch."

"Slipped, hmm. They’re fairly even," Dr. Schimmer says. As he speaks, he begins to wipe down Erik's wound. Benzocaine, then iodine. Those smells are familiar to him now.

"Did you administer penicillin?" Dr. Schimmer asks, pulling his tools from his bag.

"One shot immediately after the injury," Charles says, "and once every week after. We had a doctor in Argentina look over him before we took off."

"I can give you some pills," Dr. Schimmer says, directly to Erik, then looks at Charles. "You've improved."

"It's a little easier when you're not doing it on yourself," Charles says with a grin. "Erik's been a better patient than _I've_ ever been."

"That I certainly believe." Dr. Schimmer looks up at Erik. "I'm going to pull the older ones out. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Erik says.

He endures. It's not the worse he's had, but it’s uniquely unpleasant. The feeling of wire being pulled from his skin is like the sensation of veins being plucked away. His stomach lurches at the thought.

Charles reaches out to touch Erik’s wrist.

“It’s okay,” he says.

"Pay," Dr. Schimmer says, his focus never wandering, " _attention_ , Charles."

"Sir," Charles says.

The extraction over, Dr. Schimmer pokes and prods at the angry flesh and the stitches that remain. There'll be scars from the sutures and the incisions where the infection was drained to avoid abscess. There's not much more than a little blood and plasma, which is a relief.

Charles stands with his hands behind his back as Dr. Schimmer begins the final cleaning and bandaging. Once finished, he wipes down his hands, then tosses the fouled gauze and cloth into the basin. Erik tugs on his shirt again, finding it much easier to do without discomfort, though the work has inflamed the skin. Charles goes to drain the basin in the far sink while Dr. Schimmer writes a prescription.

"Charles," the doctor says, handing Charles the script, "let me discuss a few things with our patient. Give this to Olivia next door, she’ll have the medications sent to the manor. Then wait for your friend here in the kitchen."

"Sir!" Charles takes the prescription, then smiles at Erik. His color is high. It's not due to the heat. Like last night in the kitchen, he is clearly in his element. Erik's presence is apparently a bonus.

"I live a little further in the city," Dr. Schimmer says in Yiddish, when he and Erik are alone again. "You should join us sometime, my wife and daughters."

"Yes," Erik says, his words automatic and polite. The invitation sounds almost too good to be true. "I'd like that."

Dr. Schimmer puts his hand on Erik's knee and leans forward, putting the other palm to his face as a father would.

"You would like to, but will you?" Dr. Schimmer says, stern. Erik is indeed reminded of his own father, a serious man capable of great gentleness. "I insist. Don't make yourself a stranger, Erik."

Erik inhales with great pain. Tears threaten to come, but he pushes them down. Later, when he's alone.

"I'll make a point to," he says.

"Good." Dr. Schimmer taps his glasses in his hands. "Raven has told me Charles has been -- pushy with you. He is eager, isn't he?"

"Doctor, that's an understatement."

"I've suggested he enter Oxford in Spring, like they've asked him to do," Dr. Schimmer says, opening the door for Erik. "He's very busy right now and I'm afraid he won't have time to get his mind right before classes. He's a brilliant boy, yet given to flights of fancy."

"Ah," Erik says. "Like running after a stranger to Argentina and bringing him home in two pieces?"

"Most exactly," Dr. Schimmer says. He locks the clinic behind them. "I'm going to speak to Raven alone. Head down to the second. Charles will join you after he drops off your prescription.”

"Yes. How will I --" Erik wrings his hands briefly like a boy. "Charles and Raven have your information, of course."

"Of course." Dr. Schimmer reaches out to grasp Erik's forearm again. "Erik, you're not alone."

"I wasn't sure until now," Erik says. "Thank you, Doctor."

"You'll be due back in a week," Dr. Schimmer says. "We can plan a visit then."

Erik nods and takes the stairs. He hears Dr. Schimmer hailing Raven before his office door closes. He contorts himself on the stairs until he reaches the second floor. This is where the kitchen is, a converted bathroom with a large sink and icebox. Erik sits at one of the small metal tables in front of the window fan. He can hear the business of the lively streets from a distance and the sweet sounds of happy children from right below the window.

He's not ready to think of visits with Dr. Schimmer's family. He's not even ready to consider the next _week._ It dawns on Erik that his forward momentum towards destroying Shaw -- and himself -- is truly at a stand-still now. He has never thought this far ahead. There was never an option for both him and Shaw being alive after a production like Miami. He is healing now, he has a comfortable place to be, he has the prospect of spending time with a Jewish family to re-root himself. And Raven and Charles _are_ good company. Perhaps he will stay longer.

Decision made, an odd sensation comes over Erik. It takes a moment to place it. It’s not something he’s felt in years. Something he hadn't expected to feel again.

It is peace.

-xxx-

"So you're thinking of staying in New York for the fall, Charles?”

Erik asks this when they're halfway through the trip back home to Westchester. He's feeling particularly mischievous in his good mood. Raven is driving so Charles is an easy target to pester. Charles blinks at him, all wide-eyes.

"Oh," he says, turning around in the seat briefly. "Did Dr. Schimmer tell you that?"

"Yes," Erik says, lounging. He pats a few of the paper bags they've got in the back seat with him. There's no room for his legs but he manages to appear comfortable at the very least.

"I'm just not _ready_ ," Charles says. "I don't have my head in the game. Or anything packed. I should've been leaving right now, actually..."

"You better not be using me as an excuse, young man," Erik says.

"I'm not!" Charles says. He takes Erik seriously enough to be flustered. "I -- well, I just don't _want_ to. There's things I can do here and we won't be back for years..."

"He's so full of angst," Raven says, “ _ahng-stuh_ ”, eyes on the road. Her smile is broad enough that Erik can see it lift her ears from behind. "Trust me, we're both happier waiting until the end of the December."

"I need to send a message to the accommodations office tomorrow," Charles says, folding his arms. He's got Erik's jacket draped over his shoulders since he'd forgotten his own, shielding his skin from the rays of the sun. "I suppose I'll call them..."

They stop for a quick diner visit for a meal, Erik finding a few things that he assumed wouldn't cause his stomach any distress. Charles flirts haplessly with the waitress who is both charmed by the attempt and clearly uninterested. It's a show that's designed, apparently, to get girls to pay attention to Raven instead. This does not necessarily work with Erik in the party. He keeps a serious face and hopes that's enough to defer the focus elsewhere.

"I get what you're doing," Raven says, nudging him with her foot from under the table, "but lots of girls love big serious fellas. I'm admitting defeat on this one.” She winks. “Don't worry."

It's just at the cusp of five o'clock in the evening when they are on the final stretch to the manor. Full of food and drowsy for it, Erik considers asking his hosts if a short evening nap wouldn't be amiss.

Raven jerks the car to an abrupt stop and Erik is suddenly wide awake.

The sun hasn't gone down, but it's low enough they need the beams on to see the road. They shine light on the fact that the gate, which had remained perilously unlocked, is now secured.

"The gate," she says. She stands and wags her hands. "Oh, for fuck's sake. The gate's locked, Charles!"

"What? Oh, shit," Charles says. "Do you think Dad's back?"

"He and the crew aren't meant to be back for like, a week or something," Raven says.

Erik sticks his head out of the door. "Do you need help with the lock?"

Raven nods, scuffing her foot on the ground. It’s rare to see her flustered. "Could you? Just -- we don't have the keys to the padlock, I didn't think we were going to need them."

Erik undoes the padlock without damaging it. It’s a thoughtless task that doesn’t require him to leave the car. Charles is on edge and keeping his eyes on the road.

When they approach the estate, Charles says, “damn it. I thought so.”

He turns to Erik with a look of apology. “Just be yourself,” he says cryptically.

Raven inhales and looks up at the folded roof of the car as if in prayer. She fixes her hair into something fashionable but noticeably more conservative. The car makes it to the carport in front of the door and not the garage. Charles gets out and tidies his clothes, licking hand to slick his pomade back into place. He hands Erik's jacket back with an expression of parting with a dear friend.

"Can you help hand me all the bags?" Charles asks. Erik sees his pallor. He’s not frightened, but is no longer in a good mood.

Erik calms himself. "Yes, of course."

He is frustrated not knowing more. He’s been trained in putting puzzle pieces together, so that’s what he does. He’s been told to be himself, whatever that may mean. Raven has changed her style to something older fashioned. Charles is carrying everything inside with a stoic, stony look. It is not their step-father or his doctor friends, who he’s heard plenty about.

He has a guess who it is. He follows Charles and Raven into the house foyer and discovers he's deduced correctly.

He's seen pictures around the house of a blond woman with a severe look on her face. She once had Charles's easy beauty but never his open sweetness. She stands now in the foyer, straight-backed and perfectly done-up for an evening of travel, picking her driving gloves off as she speaks to Raven. She doesn't appear to have said anything to Charles at all.

When she notices Erik, she turns towards him with the aloof disinterest still allowed people of high birth.

"You must be Erik," Charles’s mother says, almost smiling as she holds her hand out. "Sharon Xavier. I’m rather pleased to meet you -- I was beginning to wonder if you were real at this point. Our Charles _does_ have a terrible habit of making up imaginary friends, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my wife, Shoi, for building this universe with me, my writerly friends who have been nothing but encouraging even though not in my fandom, and to the Cherik fandom who's been so welcoming and kind. You can find my [Tumblr](http://tselina.tumblr.com/) here if you'd like to see me talking about my process, my art, and everything else!


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